A Stone of Hope

by Jim St. Germain

  Then I took off, started to walk to the staircase and called to a staff member, “Hey, Ant, I’m going downstairs.” I took the stairs two at a time down to one of the staff offices. I sat alone on a chair among file cabinets and winter coats and tried to slow my breath. Then a wave of tears rushed through and overtook me, seemingly out of nowhere. They were not tears of anger at Jamal but deep disappointment at myself for missing an opportunity to be an Iza for Jamal. This was the position I had fought so hard to be in, but I had internal battles of my own that weren’t finished. And I couldn’t pour from an empty cup.

  My supervisor came down and asked me if I wanted to go home for the day. “Yes,” I said.

  Later that night I realized that I was crying because I had failed the very same person that I had committed to be a vessel for. I was battling my own demons and too caught up in them to see the big picture: No one visited Jamal on the one day that even the loneliest kids got a taste of normalcy. The pain was painted on his face, but I couldn’t identify it. I was blind to the pain, loneliness, and hopelessness inside him. I had forgotten the reason I was even there: I was Jamal. I knew his situation intimately, I lived it, but I couldn’t recognize it because I was burdened by my own painful memories. If I couldn’t empathize with Jamal—and the thousands like him—then who on earth was going to? It was like I proved that he had no chance. What became clear to me was something I once heard: hurt people hurt people.

  About a year later, a kid at Boys Town named Amir came back from a nighttime phone call in a fiery mood. All the other residents were lined up when I saw him come into the bedroom. “Amir, line up.”

  “Fuck you,” he said.

  “Whoa,” a kid blurted out.

  “Damn,” another kid said.

  “Self monitor,” I said to them, turning back to Amir. “I understand you’re upset but you still need to follow this simple instruction. You earned a negative five thousand points.”

  “What, you deaf? I said fuck you, I’m not going to listen to no—”

  “Amir, think about what you’re doing right now. You’re just making it worse—”

  Amir was well over two hundred pounds, a Mack truck with caramel skin, wild curly hair down to his shoulders, and a wide baby face. Despite his size, this was not his normal behavior. It was like a force had taken him over.

  As I tried to stay with the model, Amir became enraged. His curses and names morphed into physical threats, pushing me on defense. “I can make a phone call and have my people wait outside here for when you get off work,” he said to me. My instinct was to switch to offense, and I could feel my muscles moving in that direction. Once a threat like that was launched, you never knew: there might be a ticking clock on you, so you better act.

  Amir’s eyes were inflamed, his facial muscles tensed. “I can have my boys be here in ten minutes to get at you!” he yelled.

  I’d been hit with roundhouse punches, spat on, and screamed at, but Amir’s threats broke through a new barrier. Compassion and professionalism were almost overtaken by self-preservation. Fortunately, my cooler self won out.

  I felt relieved when he dropped it, but an anger lingered in my chest. It was a different kind of anger, though, the kind that gnaws at you and troubles your soul. I couldn’t be sure how I would’ve reacted if things escalated. I could’ve lost control, thrown away all I had worked for simply to help those like Amir. He literally didn’t have anyone else.

  I went through the motions until my shift ended that night. I transitioned the logbook over to the overnight staff without saying much and made my way down the stairs. As I walked past Amir’s room, I heard him say, “Yo, Jim.”

  I reluctantly peeked in his room. “What’s up?”

  He handed me a piece of paper. “Here,” he said. “But don’t read it now.”

  I put it in my back pocket and left, anxious to get out of there. It wasn’t Amir I was escaping, but the version of myself I had worked so hard to leave behind.

  Losing your temper at someone whom you don’t care for is understandable and part of being human. But losing it on a younger version of yourself is incredibly painful.

  The walk to the subway was elongated, with one block feeling like twenty and my knees aching with each step. When I got inside the station I sat down on a bench, took a deep breath, and opened Amir’s note.

  Jim, I’m very sorry for what I did tonight.

  I allowed my anger to control me and I didn’t mean to.

  The directness, the bravery, and the honesty of his words struck me deeply. Amir went on to explain where he was coming from. His mother had been raising him and his two brothers on her own. Part of her income was from a nanny job, and part of it was from an SSI check she got for him. When Amir started getting into trouble with the law his mother had to take days off from work to be with him in Family Court, which led to her losing her job. To compound the family’s difficulties, after he got sentenced and went into the system, the SSI checks stopped coming. He felt responsible that her whole world had unraveled. Part of the unintended consequences of the juvenile justice system is that a small thing leads to big things, which then can run rampant over people’s lives. A minor teenage indiscretion spills outward and causes a flood.

  That night Amir’s mother had called to tell him that she and his brothers had gotten kicked out their home. They were now homeless, struggling to find a place to lay their heads at night, and Amir had to carry the guilt. All the ripples and consequences, the domino effect, of his actions hit him when he hung up the phone. He had to carry the extra burden of knowing that he would be in the system that much longer since he couldn’t return home. Then, a simple nighttime routine became a platform for him to express his grief and pain.

  His anger was borne of a guilt that had been chewing at him until it finally tore through him. I had walked in his shoes just three years earlier and now I was the target of that anger. As the train whooshed into the station, kicking up dust and carrying the wind, my anger was replaced by profound sadness. I had to double down on my commitment. Forgetting where these kids were coming from was like not seeing them at all.

  18

  The Bridge

  It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men.

  —FREDERICK DOUGLASS

  As seeds were being planted I felt they had to sprout beyond my personal plot of land. The collective stakes were too high, and I needed a seat at the table; I knew the old adage that if you weren’t at the table then you were on the menu. Politicians were finally recognizing that any real reform to the juvenile justice system required the input of community members and those who had been impacted by that system, voices of people who had been silently kept in the shadows.

  Years ago the federal government along with the Legal Aid Society sued New York State because numerous adolescents were severely injured—and a few killed—due to harmful restraining practices in state facilities. New York State settled and accepted many of the reform measures from the federal government. When Governor Andrew Cuomo took office in 2011, he had to put in place many of these reforms to the juvenile justice system. He reached out to collaborate with New York City mayor Michael Bloomberg’s administration, and the “Close to Home” initiative was born.

  For decades, juvenile detention facilities in upstate New York were overflowing with inner-city poor kids of color. Most families had no cars and could not travel the hundreds of miles to visit their children, denying these youths their rights to be rehabilitated with family participation, not to mention their love and support. The correction staff consisted mostly of white, rural men who had no experience with the populations whose lives they controlled. It was a toxic mix, so many kids were permanently damaged by their time upstate. Unsurprisingly, the recidivism rate for these juveniles within three years of their releases was over 80 percent.10 Youths leaving upstate facilities were soon readmitted to local city facilities, and this time, they went to adult prisons. The original decision to s
end them upstate had permanently detrimental effects. It’s not just that their needs weren’t being met and their rights weren’t being upheld. Their futures were unfairly being predetermined. Self-fulfilling prophecies were playing out across New York City to the sounds of sirens wailing, gavels banging, and cell doors clanging shut.

  The Close to Home initiative looked to tackle a root problem. Its goal was to keep juvenile offenders close to their community while providing them with the services they needed to rehabilitate. The proximity to their family and to staff who understood their issues would be enormously beneficial, possibly cycle-breaking. Close to Home also focused on the types of facilities juveniles were sent to, expanding places like Boys Town that created a proper environment. It wasn’t the system itself that helped me rise up and out; it was the type of place I was sent to. Despite its possible benefits, the model had yet to be widely accepted or embraced.

  Though close to home, kids would ideally be placed in similar brownstones throughout the city with no bars, no staff members acting like prison guards, and no treating nonviolent teenagers like hardened criminals. Instead they were given an opportunity to rehabilitate and the environment to do so: backyards, family dinners, a quiet place to do their schoolwork, a support system invested in their success. Close to Home would aim to recognize that a juvenile is not a convict, though he can became one through the neglect and abuse of a cruel and arbitrary system.

  Mayor Bloomberg’s administration contacted me and invited me to speak at a press conference announcing the initiative at Passages Academy in East New York. I was just entering John Jay at the time so the prospect of meeting with the mayor was exciting. I was studying politics and then—boom—I was shaking its hand.

  I was introduced to Bloomberg in an empty classroom, where we had time to talk briefly beforehand. He joked about how everyone is always taller than him.

  I smiled. “Well, you’re the man that makes things happen in this city,” I said.

  His face turned earnest. “Not really,” he said, his unique cadence and schoolteacher intonation pushing through. “One thing you’ll learn is that surrounding yourself with brilliant minds”—he pointed to his staff—“who actually know something, makes you appear smarter.”

  We discussed role models in urban America and the way the justice system treats juveniles. We talked about our respective backgrounds—which couldn’t have been more disparate—and he mentioned his time at Harvard Business School.

  I shook my head and said, “I’m still dreaming about Harvard—”

  “Well, you should . . .”

  “Maybe. But I think I’ll keep my head above water in the CUNY system for now.”

  Mayor Bloomberg was not the classic politician. He had a straightforward approach that seemed to transcend things like poll numbers and news coverage. A bold approach, that many did not agree with, was unique for modern-day politics. I learned that he and fellow billionaire George Soros were privately funding a $30 million program called the Young Men’s Initiative to tackle inequalities among minorities in the city, the ultimate “money where your mouth is” situation.

  The mayor and I walked down the hall of the school and into another classroom that had been prepped for our arrival. Various teenagers who were incarcerated in the juvenile justice system awaited us. He started speaking casually and then asked the students how they had become involved with the law. After listening to some of their stories, he assured them they could make it out if they stayed focused and worked hard. Then he pointed to me. “Look at Jim, here,” he said, and they all did. “Jim is a perfect example of what can occur if you take advantage of the services and the people here.” I could see them all checking me out, curious. Some looked surprised when the mayor said I had been sitting where they were just a few short years ago and was now a college graduate.

  “You’re old enough to be responsible for your future,” he told them. “You can’t blame the system, or your parents. It’s up to you now. Jim is a real-world example of someone who made the decision, went through the tough times, and is coming out the other side.”

  We walked out of the classroom to the front of the school where a podium and the press were waiting. He announced the Close to Home initiative, detailed its goals, and mentioned how “it’s in everybody’s interest . . . to stop this vicious cycle of going in and out of the criminal justice system. What happens as they get older, the next cycle is they go to Rikers, the prison system, and then a slab in the morgue.” I appreciated his big-picture approach and the strength of the words he chose, refusing to sugarcoat what was at stake.

  The mayor then introduced me. “This young man will probably make a fortune,” he said, offhandedly joking, “and for all I know, be the next mayor.” I stood up in front of that crowd, cameras whirring, eyes on me. I took a deep breath and rubbed my palms together. Then I launched into my story.

  At that press conference I began to form and shape what would continually be my argument. It was the one I made to the people with the purse strings and to average citizens wondering why they should care.

  “It’s really easy to give up on our kids,” I said, “but it’s hard to actually do something for them, help them become productive members of society, have them pay taxes and go to school.” We are mutually bound by the well-being of those who may seem as others. We create productive citizens and taxpayers that way. Among these kids could be the next Steve Jobs or Bryan Stevenson, a Supreme Court justice or disease-curing scientist.

  The whole event was a perfect distillation of what I was aiming to do. I felt like I actually had the ears of both sides—the men with the power to change things and the kids whose futures depend on it.

  While I was working at Boys Town, there was still something missing. It was like I was cutting grass with scissors. Appearing with the mayor and working on Close to Home—and then being invited to speak with legislators from other states about adopting it—gave me a taste of the behind-the-scenes mechanisms that determined so much of kids’ lives. I would come back from meetings with high-powered people and sit with youngsters and get frustrated by the disconnect. So many influential and high-level decisions were being made against their interest in rooms miles away. The frustration built over my three years at Boys Town until it felt like I was running in place at full speed.

  The sad fact is that many decisions about juvenile issues aren’t made because they’re good for the kids. They’re made through a combination of self-interests: politics, fear of negative press, a need to maintain the power structure, and an inertia that favors the status quo. Decision makers are out of touch, immune to the ferocity and urgency of these problems. The overwhelming majority aren’t from the same environment or socioeconomic status as the group they’re making decisions for. They speak, and judge, and rule from a distance—physical, socioeconomic, and, by extension, emotional. Even the well-intentioned can go home at the end of the day to their safe neighborhood and detach themselves, blocking out their workday. I can’t: That’s me ten years ago, my son ten years from now. I still see them when I’m in the facilities, getting off the train, in the park, in the schools, and on the streets. They’re an inseparable part of my life.

  I still wanted to be a presence in kids’ lives, but I also wanted to help change the circumstances they were in. I wanted to absorb who they were and bring that back to the boardrooms and conference tables where their futures were determined.

  When an opportunity presented itself to work within a New York City department that is responsible for youth in the juvenile justice system, I availed myself of the idea of working within a bureaucracy as an agent of change. It would help me give direct care to the kids and direct influence on policy decisions. I’d be working with troubled kids one-on-one and in groups, visiting the facilities and the schools to hear their concerns. But I would also sit on committees where the policies and rules were written, acting as a conduit.

  Our purview covered a wide swath: physical abuse, v
isitation, education, allowance, medical and mental health, employment, recreation, and more. In a bureaucracy of thousands of employees and a $3 billion budget, getting my kids’ voices in became a challenge. No matter what the issue or case, I tried to insert the point of view of the single kid who needed us to do right by him or her. He or she wasn’t there physically but still sitting there in that room with us.

  There are two things I love about young people. The first is that they’re brutally direct; they’ll tell you what you need to hear, whether you like it or not. The value they put in authenticity is pronounced and it keeps me honest. The second thing is they’re masterful at picking up on things and have a sixth sense about whether you care or not. The only way to break through to them is with some kind of heart. They tune you out if you condescend and they’ll lash out if you make assumptions about who they are. They’ve been talked down to their entire lives by parents, neighbors, teachers, principals, and cops. It is the unassailable fact of their lives.

  My experience gave me an automatic in that others did not have. One time I was at a school and a teenager I had never met before came up to me. “Mr. Jim,” he said, “you’ve been to prison before, right?”

  I smiled. “Well, I’ve been in the system, yeah. How’d you know?”

  He pointed to my head. “The waves, man.” He knew because of the way my hair was brushed. It’s something that young men usually work on while they’re locked up. He had a brush to his hair, doing the same thing,

  “Good looking,” I said, giving him a dap.

  The ones I deal with are already embarrassed, so I try to assess their strengths and build them up. I make a point to stay calm with them, sometimes affectionate, which is something they’re not used to. They understand masculinity as toughness and power. It’s like a bomb they throw as a defense mechanism. If I come off as a threat then we’re working backward, falling into old patterns and dynamics.