N. Idaho kids find safe place for second chances
Anthony Grant is a skinny 15-year-old who likes sports, though his adoptive mother tells him he's too small to play football next fall. He likes computers, wears braces and glasses, and when he gawks at the blackboard in class at Anchor House, he leans so far forward in his seat, the back legs of his chair lift from the ground.
But Anthony has a temper, and when it takes hold of him, he flies into a rage. "In the past I really didn't look back on situations when I got mad," Anthony said. "I overreacted. I got upset over the littlest things." It's that temper he turned on his adopted sister in 2006, and why he's at Anchor House, the residential treatment home for at-risk boys on the corner of Mill Avenue and Government Way in Coeur d'Alene.
It's the third correctional facility Anthony's seen since he left his home in Deer Park, Wash., two years ago. "It's been horrible," said his adoptive mother, Michelle Collins. "To be put in a position where the safety of your children, one of your kids, can't live in your home anymore is horrific."
The treatment facility, sponsored by the Idaho Youth Ranch, is the final step for boys like Anthony trying to integrate from juvenile detention back into normal life, and for all of them, it's a fork in the road where they can either choose to stay out of trouble or end up back in the system. "There's nothing worse than having a kid leave here and hearing they're back in trouble," said Randy Palmer, independent learning specialist for Anchor House.
Late last month, Anthony was preparing to head home, planning to enroll in the 10th grade, continue to see a family therapist and pick up the pieces of a life inside a house he almost shattered. "I'm trying," he said. "But I still have some stuff I need to work on. When I first left, my mom didn't want me to come back," he said. "But I've had a lot of changes. My whole family has seen a lot of changes from the time I left until now."
Now, when he loses his temper, he writes his thoughts and feelings down on paper. He records his reaction. He can see its misappropriation on paper, make it tangible, and in that way, the rage passes. "Whenever I have troubles I'm going to talk about it," he said. "I don't have to think about it. I'm going to talk to someone and work it out."
He's worked hard to earn the trust back of his family and his sisters, he said. His mother saw the difference. "She gave me a second try," he said. But before he goes, he wants to be certain. "I don't want to disappoint my family," he said.
At Anchor House, Randy Palmer leads the group of boys – from ages 12 to 18 – through their structured days. They rise at 6 a.m., meditate at 7, and then go to school. They meet with their clinicians, their therapists and undergo staff reviews. Behind every day is a structure, hourly lessons, and chores such as cleaning and raking leaves. When they get ready to leave a room, they must line up together while an instructor searches them.
But the kids play games, too: fun exercises like Mad Libs, recesses in front of the house with football and kickball games on the cracked black cement basketball court and whiffle ball games with youth specialist Marcel Johnson lobbing pitches to the boys at home plate.
"It's hard not to build personal relationships with these kids, not to get too emotionally involved and maintain that rigid professional distance, but you really want to see these kids succeed once they're out of here," Palmer said. "You see a lot kids who succeed and fail after they leave, and you want to hold on to the ones who succeed."
Dorm-style rooms cover the top floor of the two-story house. In the rec room, the social spot on the top floor, a red and yellow graffitied sign reads "Anchor House" in street-style tag. It was a gift left behind by a former pupil, an artist. All of the boys have talents. Some are athletes. Plenty are smart, like Anthony, who fixes the house's computer network when it crashes and plays the piano when he's home.
And when the boys do succeed, they stay in touch. "They always want to come back and tell you how they're doing 10 years later," Palmer said.
Outside the Anchor House walls, the same negative influences that brought the boys here, wait for them. Many share similar backgrounds: parents who abused drugs or alcohol, being left to grow up alone, having authority problems or tempers. They feel differently from other kids.
Fifteen-year-old Jake also has anger issues. As part of his integration process, he's allowed to attend public school in Coeur d'Alene during the day before coming back to the house at night. At school, surrounded by kids, he feels isolated, alone and sometimes resentful. "Sometimes I'll be at school and I can feel my anger build up," he said. "And I know I'll need to be alone and that I'm not quite ready to be back."
Not all succeed. "By the time we see them, these boys have 15 years of influences," Palmer said. "Every kid is coming in here with a long history, and we get them for six months to a year. They appreciate what we're trying to do for them. Obviously, some of them are mad in the moment, but they know if it doesn't work here they can go back to another lockdown facility." He paused. "They know there's a lot at stake," he said.
Tyler, 15, is the newest kid in the house. His parents were deep into drugs. Left alone, he was breaking into cars along main street in his hometown when he was arrested. Already, he wants to remain at Anchor House longer than six months. He wants to be sure he's strong enough to stand up to what awaits him when he gets out. "Usually, people just get out (from state care) and get in trouble again instead of learning from their mistakes," he said. "My biggest fear is committing a crime again. Not my crime, a crime. In juvenile detention I'd spend the same amount of time, but I know I wouldn't get the help I need and I'd end up back in trouble."
To help integrate back into the community, some boys help out at the Idaho Youth Ranch Thrift Store on Fourth Street selling items and stocking the shelves. The job helps the store, which helps fund the Anchor House. The store will expand its facility later this year. The younger boys host car washes and do community service. Every day is an opportunity, Palmer tells them.
"I can't see the reasons not to change," Tyler said. "I want to make it so I don't have to depend on other people to make my decisions for me." Tyler said he is standing at a fork in the road, and he already knows in which direction he wants to turn. "I'm glad I'm here," he said. "I'm going to take advantage of this."
The choice, Palmer tells them, is theirs.
The house doesn't lock its doors. "If you want to leave you can open the door and go right out," Anthony said. "You could stop and make a ham sandwich on the way out," 15-year-old Sam added. But they're not going anywhere. Not Sam, Tyler or Anthony – not yet.
But for Anthony, his mother will pick him up and take him back to Deer Park in only a few days and at night, now, he thinks about his homecoming and confides his fears in his roommate, Joe. "I told him it would be hard for me, too," Joe said later. "He's going to be facing some stuff that would be pretty hard for me myself to face." Like integrating back into normal life. Like telling the other students at the new school where he'd been. Like when his temper seizes him and he can feel his blood throbbing in his veins without a notebook or pen in hand.
"I think it's good he's worried about some things, because that means he's probably going to do good," Joe said. "Most of the time when people leave they're not worried about anything. They're pretty confident, and then they almost always end up back in trouble. If you're worried about it, that's good. That means you're cautious."
Before that, before the goodbye, Anthony stares at the ceiling at night, nervous about the day he goes home. Earlier this month, Anthony's parents arrived at Anchor House, clustered around him with staff and peers for Anthony's goodbye circle – a tradition at Anchor House where every kid, parent and staff member surrounds the departing boy to see him off and wish him luck. "I feel very comfortable," his mother said. "Everyone's ready to have him come back. We're ready to be done and have this part of our lives over with and move forward."
"Anthony, you've been away from home for a long time," Palmer told him from the circle. "It's a pretty neat thing you finally get to go back and be with your family. I think that's the most important part of what's happened here. Just make sure you pay attention to who you make friends with when you get out there. That's one of those challenges when you get in a new school and a new environment. Choose the right people."
They went around the circle, each person telling him goodbye.
He will be back in three months for his Anchor House graduation. When he's older, he could earn a scholarship for college through the Idaho Youth Ranch.
"I guess I'll be alone now," Joe said. "I know you can do it."
"I wish you the best of luck," 15-year-old Stephen tells him. "I'm happy you're going. I mean that in a positive way."
"Hopefully, you can start over," Sam said. "Put your troubles behind you, I guess the saying goes. You're doing good. I know in my heart it will continue."
Stay active, stay in sports, Esteban told him, the boy too small for football. "You're pretty good at them."
Anthony's mother cried.
"You've worked so, so hard," she said. "Nobody is prouder of you than I am."
She beamed. Her husband, Dan, stood beside her. In Deer Park, the rest of his family waits. Then the circle broke and the boys converge on him, smiling, patting him, shaking his hand, happy and sad to see him go. When they smile, lines break from the corner of their eyes and mouths like scars – years of pain and fear and emotion carved into their soft skins.
Information from: Coeur d'Alene Press, http://www.cdapress.com
Tom Hasslinger
15 November 2008
http://www.magicvalley.com/articles/2008/11/16/ap-state-id/d94f85684.txt
