Sometimes, synchronicity happens and it happened at QUEST last Friday.We have a 15 year old boy at QUEST who is an arrogant and difficult child. I've known him for years, in fact, I know his whole family; brothers, sisters, nephews, grandparents, Mom and (this is a big one) Dad.
For the past couple of years, he dropped out of sight and into trouble. I took him for community service, I took him for the YES program and this summer, I took him for SJTA or rather, probation took him, found him, stuffed him and his bike into their car and delivered him to QUEST. He did not want to be there. He talked a lot about his job at AJ Wright, from which he had just been fired. I think he lasted two weeks. It seems he told his boss he was going to bring a gun to work the next day. That's it, kaboom, all done and out the door.
Next? So, now I have this adolescent with his pencil mustache and his tattoo which covers half his arm and all of his braggadocio. It seems that when he turns 16, he intends to quit school (a big waste of time, he says) and join the military. "And who's going to sign for you?" I asked. "Oh, my dad is," he replies. "He loves you so much he's going to let you quit school and go to war?" Well, that went over his head while he was going on about his amazing future to come. Money, women, travel and best of all, no combat opportunities, even when he turned 18.
I could have been talking to my cat and received more attention, but that didn't mean I didn't try. I talked to the right, I went up (he went down), I talked to the left, he left town. North, South, East and West, putting it on paper. That didn't pass the test.
In short, his mind was made up and he certainly didn't want to be confused with the facts.
But wait, on Friday, Nell's mother came in. i hadn't seen Nell for a while. She's a super smart 8 year old who's going to summer camp, but lately she's been dropping over at odd times. I have a soft spot for her mom, she gave me a stuffed, white bear for Valentine's Day that I actually sleep with (true confession, I'm baring all).
Now, her mom has never been inside QUEST and yet, here she was ensconced on my couch in my office and we were jabbering away about this and that when what's left of my brain lit up like a magic idea machine.
"Wait," I said. "I have this problem and I can't seem to say anything right. Can you talk to D for me?
You see, Nell's mom is in the National Guard. She joined up for college tuition for herself and then a war happened, she's been on two tours of duty and she was even wearing her National Guard official shirt.
And there we were, just like a movie. Kids, as usual, running through my office, much screaming and yelling (also usual) but there were the two of them sitting on my couch talking.
Once in a while, I could hear a few words filtering through the din. Words like, "I was on the front line. I don't want to be there again," and, "They'll tell you whatever you want to hear just to get you to sign up," and "Why would you want to quit school?" 45 minutes later, she collected her two children and left, this time for her own home in Vale Village. Who knows for how long.
But, I know she left behind a legacy, a true thought, several of them and kept a young boy from throwing his life away (maybe literally). Of course, D, never to be kept without a plan for the future, says, "I want to be a cop. I know all the dealers, I can become an important crime fighter. I can be a good guy." Maybe so, D, maybe so. In the meantime, I think I want to sit down and have a little talk with your probation office. Maybe together we can point you in the right direction.
While I'm wearing this happy face, I'm going to bring back Eric, my ballet boy from my last blog. I have been limping pretty badly lately, this constant dampness has permeated my old bones and I'm kind of lurching along, like a wind up toy that is running down. Yesterday, I couldn't even face myself in those long, dance studio mirrors. "Maybe if I don't see it, it won't be real."
It's getting so when I look in the mirror, I don't recognize my own reflection. So, here I am, slouching in the corners, trying to leave the studio unnoticed and not embarrass myself or others when Eric came over. "Are you OK?" And of course, I mumble, "Yes. Sure, I'm fine." "Let me at least carry your bag for you," he says. So, here we are, the hip hop, 12 year old, black boy from Harlem, in his white "Wife Beater" T-shirt and diamond earring and me, the 67 year old, white woman from Schenectady, walking down the SPAC driveway in the sun. He gives me his arm and I take it and he carries my bag, a brilliant, shocking pink, suede messenger bag and the sun shines and I smile and smile and smile.
On a completely different tack, I have been playing company class for Mark Morris, the brilliant, bizarre, curmudgeon of modern dance. I love his classes and I hope he loves me. Yesterday, his company manager left me a message on my cellphone, "Mark says, you were good. He likes you and," he adds, "whenever the company is anywhere near this area, we will hire you." And if that doesn't leave a warm glow in my heart, I don't know what else could.
QUEST has sent me a very, very tough year. Money is tight and our site is not secure. I worry all night long, but Mark owns a 6 million dollar studio in Brooklyn. Who knows, when and if I retire, maybe I won't end up scooping ice cream in Stewart's after all.
