Waking Up to a World I Never Knew Existed

Important lessons on the way to becoming a human

Take one more step bitch, and I’ll break your nose. Eddie had his fists raised. His intense brown eyes were hyper-focused on my face

I backed up a few steps, speaking slowly, repeating Eddie’s name, reminding him I cared and wanted to hear what he had to say. I had no formal training in working with severely emotionally disturbed boys. I watched what my co-workers did and tried to imitate them.

I applied for this job because it seemed interesting.

The job description called for a behavior-modification teaching assistant. I intended to return to college for a master’s in secondary education in the coming fall. I had recently returned from Japan, where I taught extremely polite teenagers and adults who revered teachers.

This new job was the complete opposite. At the interview, I was warned I’d be called offensive names, spat at, swung at, and mistrusted. Most kids in the program hated school, so teaching would also be challenging. Workbooks often went flying. At least two kids had ADHD. Sometimes, desks got turned over, and chaos ensued.

It would have been wise to turn tail, get back on my bike, and ride home. I continued the interview with the team of cynical, seasoned young adults interrogating me. I liked the whole crew, even the strange boss, who continually quoted what he claimed were Buddhist phrases. He wanted me to focus on being at peace despite the challenges of the job.

I was offered a full-time job with benefits. The pay was mediocre. I would learn low pay was the norm with non-profit jobs.

The best benefit I got was an education about trauma — although that’s not what people called it in the 80s. It was called gross parental neglect, abuse, violation, and criminal conduct. The families of the kids in the program were horrible. One boy’s father sold him for sexual use by paying friends, and another kid had severe fetal alcohol syndrome and was rejected by his parents. His way of acting out was to start fires. Another kid was brought up in an abusive cult. Another had extremely aggressive parents. The last kid had a father who used the kid in drug deals.

I had never even considered such horrifying treatment could be a kid’s reality. These weren’t stories I had encountered in my very sheltered upbringing. I had no vocabulary and a limited capacity to understand how such bleak realities were possible for kids.

I had read books and seen films about such atrocities, but those stories seemed like abstractions compared to dealing with actual severely damaged kids. No wonder the kids acted out their emotions and overreacted to what they perceived as even slight violations of trust.

These kids had survived unspeakable challenges. They already had been to jail, foster care, mental health treatment, and reform schools. This new behavioral school — because it was residential and staffed with some compassionate and straightforward staff, with whom the kids connected — seemed to be a powerful source of support for otherwise emotionally abandoned kids.

Every day the kids had a morning therapy session with a psychiatrist. I was amazed at how easily the boys identified and talked about their feelings. They used a wheel of emotions to guide what they shared. When it was my turn, I realized how lousy I was at knowing and expressing feelings.

If I was asked how I was and I responded Fine the kids all yelled out Fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and emotional. They demanded I share an emotion I was experiencing.

That confused me. Saying fine was normal in my birth family, but was considered a non-answer in these therapy groups.

Gradually, I learned how to be more open about my emotions, which the kids showed their approval of by clapping. It was inspiring for them to watch an adult struggle with emotional expression. Sometimes they coached me on how to get down to more base emotions, like fear or anger.

The school wasn’t only about hard emotional work for kids and teachers. We also played sports, games like kickball, flag football, and tag. Sometimes we played basketball or took the afternoon to hang out on the nearby beach. Some of the kids tried surfing with staff supervision. We also created plays and performed them or watched movies like Pretty in Pink, The Breakfast Club, or Top Gun.

We played charades regularly and had dance parties.

One of the toughest parts of the job was taking down kids when they needed to be contained. It was always a team effort. The strongest guys on staff would take the lead on big teenage guys like Eddie. The staff member held their arms across the kid’s chest and held their legs tightly in a scissor-like squeeze.

Other staff would help hold down arms and legs until the kid quieted. With the smaller kids, I could usually take them down on my own and hold them for 5 minutes until another staff came to trade places and help with calming the kid. The hardest part was dealing with the kid’s emotional release during the take-down process. It was like being in someone else’s nightmare. It was exhausting.

Sometimes the boss, who had changed his name by then to Daniel, would try to help, but he usually made things worse. He would ask the distressed kid using a fake calm voice to visualize a waterfall or a fountain. It made the kid more frustrated and aggressive. One of us usually had to ask Daniel to step back.

I learned so much at that job. I’m still amazed I continued working there until I started my teacher training program, where I learned a fraction of what the kids and my fellow staff had taught me.