Bittersweet

This week, one of the boys (young men) I work with graduated from our program. He is probably one of my favorites (yes, I know I shouldn't have favorites). I have very mixed feelings about this. This is how it is supposed to work. Very troubled young men come to our program (usually by way of a court order). We provide counseling, training, mentoring and lots of supervision, they progress and then they leave us to go on to bigger and better things. That is not how it always works, some of these boys (they are young enough to be my sons, they are boys) will never acquire enough skills or self-control to move on. They are manipulative, they are lazy, they have mental health issues going on, they are very angry young men. Others will leave and then mess up and return to us. Some will learn what they need to learn and will be okay.

This particular young man calls me drill sarge, he has tested me time and time again. He has threatened me, cursed at me, confessed to me and tried to shock me. He is Eddie Haskell, but more sincere. He hates the program, but he knows that I care. He pushes and I push back. He is an extremely talented person. Lately, he has done really well, he has tapped into his talents. He has dared to dream and to form a plan to achieve it. He also has very little support network outside of our program. I hope he can hold it together, I hope he can keep his focus. I hope he keeps in touch. I hope he makes it.

I know I am Mom to many of these young men. I don't encourage it, but I know it can't be helped. Most of them need a mom. All of them need someone to believe in them, but also hold them accountable. Some of them I am quite fond of, some of them I think are punks. I try to put my personal feelings aside, I act professionally, I try to be fair. I also know that fair is not necessarily everyone getting the same thing, but everyone getting what they need. Sometimes though, I do feel like Mom. I feel that way, when they bring in torn clothes and ask me to sew them. I feel that way, when they expect me to bake them a birthday cake. I feel that way, when I call them on the carpet and they answer, "yes ma am." I have also felt that way after they are gone, when they have moved on. Yet, they call from a hospital bed after emergency surgery, or when their brother dies in an accident, or when they just show up and ask me if I would still sew something up for them.

Today, I wanted to tell my Eddie Haskell, don't forget to call me and let me know you are okay. I wanted to tell him not to forget that I cared about him. What I said was, "Good luck, stay out of trouble and don't let me see you back here." He said, "I'll see you around, Drill Sarge."