Helping Others to Help Ourself...

There was no doubt he was depressed. He was fifteen, his mom had been in prison or rehab most his life, his Dad was an alcoholic. Department of Family and Children Services took him from his home...they would release him to his Dad if his Dad did AA. His Dad refused, so he was in placement for good...owned by the state, a child left to nothing but his own devices.

He rarely smiled, I couldn't get him to do any activities. One time he asked me why I spent time at the facility. I said I wanted to "give back", to help others. He looked at me like I was crazy. "Why would you do that? Why not just live your life, and enjoy it. No one ever did anything for me, why would I do anything for anyone else?" The next day his mother's birthday came, and she was going to come visit him...he casually said to me that she was coming but he felt stupid that she was coming, and he had nothing to give her anyway.

I said, I have an idea. I grabbed a handful of guys and took them into the art supply room. "Let's make a sign for his mother, a happy birthday sign..." The boys looked at me...with sort of curious faces and then out of nowhere took off in a whirl wind of creativity. The paint was flying, hands racing, stencils rocking, ex-taggers using their vandalism skills for fine art. I watched this kids face stand there in awe as all these others kids he barely talked to help him make a sign for his mother. He was trying not to show it, but he was stoked. The sign, was beautiful, it came out something to the effect of Banky meets Monet and a homemade card.

After his mom came for the visit, he came up to me, and said "Simone, I gave my mom the sign, and she...well, she cried. I've never seen my mom cry like that before. I think she's gonna hang it up in the living room of her house or something crazy like that..." The look on his face was something I will never forget. It was as if the long winter of his life got a moment of sunshine, and he began to thaw out for a minute. The pure joy of giving to his mother, and making her happy made him feel good about himself, and made him feel valuable. It also made him forget, even for just a moment to not be angry at her, hate her, and allow her to simply be for one day.

There is no doubt that making that sign for his mother made her day, but I was more focused on him, and how the pure act of doing something good for someone else made him shine. It was a reminder of how often we focus on ourselves, our own problems and how sometimes the best way to fix your own problems is to help others on their journey and in that you find own bliss.

Mending Souls...

I brought in a sewing kit some months ago to the facility because I wanted to teach the boys how to sew. I love it, and I find it very relaxing. At first they stated that it was gay, boring, and looked at me like I was crazy...(a loving look I get from them about ten times a day, "you crazy girl".) Then the first boy came forward with something that had been given to him by his grandfather that needed sewing.

Last week I came into the facility and about fifteen guys were lined up waiting for class. They all yelled out, Simone, Simone!! Do you have your sewing kit??!! I have a hackie Sac/pillow/rain coat/ shirt/ shoe/ football glove/pair of pants that need to be sewn. If one were to look at this in an incorrect light they would say.."who the hell do you think I am? Sewing all your bullsh*t stuff for you." But they are not looking for "handouts" or free labor. They are looking for healing...and at that moment I realized how drastically they had changed in even just a few months time.

Each time I sew something with a boy, they sit with me paciently and watch and try to learn themself how to sew the item. The item is almost always a beloved object that has withstood the test of time and wear through numerous placements, juvenile hall, camp, and horrific family situations. While we are sewing, the story, history, or value of the object is always very clear. I watch them relax, and a peace come over them as we sew. I listen to them talk, and I feel the tears, holes, rips in their heart slowly start to mend stitch by stich. Old stitches are pulled out, and new ones are put in. It is not an over night process, but it helps. I have come to realize that no progress with these boys happens over night, but that every step along the way is important.

My hope is that one day each one of these young heroes mends the pain in their heart, and only with love, work, and time the scars will fade, and the fabric of their life will have a different hue.
I now carry my keys, badge, and a small sewing kit in my back pocket when entering the facility.