Journal at the shelter

J o u r n a l at the S h e l t e r

P h u c Nguyen

A B S T R A C T : A Vietnamese social work and youth studies student describes her experiences and her feelings as a volunteer intern in an urban shelter program for chil- dren and youth in the United States.

Friday, January 10

First day at Youth Hall, a unit within the "shelter" for teenagers in trouble. A small office, full of papers on the walls and stuffed files, separates ten rooms--five for girls, five for boys. A recreation room beside the office has an old couch, pool table, reading tables and chairs. Four counselors walk in and out, talk on the phones, run after kids, answer questions, stop fights, record events, sign sheets, and more. Five, six, nine teenagers dash in and out, question the counselors, scream on the phones, slam doors, and yell: "You owe me 35r "F--k off! I don't owe you nothing! .... Shut up, you sucker! I 'm gonna beat the hell out of you until you pay me . . . . "Two kids fight. Phones ring off the hooks. Cassette tapes blast out: "Rock, rock, rock down the house." "What the devil's going on?" someone shouts. Amid this heavy traffic yet away in their fantasized battlefield of kings and queens, a grandpa sulking in a wheelchair and a young kid slumping over the table play chess.

I sit here, knowing nothing to do but to wonder who will win this battle.

School t ime is 9:30-10:30. Dave is very weak in Math; John has a short attention span, yet can work on Algebra and play games at the same time. Ann, walking on crutches, needs help with reading aloud. Matthew pouts, draws mean faces of teachers, and refuses to work.

Morning activity t ime is 10:30-11:30. Matthew and grandpa are back at the chess battle. Ann looks very sad, sitting alone, writing on

Requests for reprints should be addressed to the author at 4024 Crystal Circle, Shoreview, MN 55126.

Child & Youth Care Forum, 21(2), April 1992 �9 1992 Human Sciences Press, Inc. 91

92 Child and Youth Care Forum

a note pad. She tells me, "I don't like it here. Ya, I like it bet ter at home. I don't get along with my father. I don't live with my m o m . . . I'm eleven years old; my baby's a month old. My dad doesn't let me take her over to live with morn . . . . " J o h n and Sam pick up their fight where they left off. Counselors run and wrestle to stop them at the door. John flies off, with Sam screaming after him.

I leave at noon. The air outside feels good, fresher than usual. As I ride the bus home, I wonder, "Will any of these kids ever make his- tory? Or even a good story for themselves?"

Monday, January 13

I meet new staff and two new k ids - - a well-groomed girl in stylish clothes and make up, and a big, tough-looking boy with two earrings. The boy sits on the couch, which is already crowded with other kids. "Let's sit down and talk!" he says loudly. Nobody hears him. Every- body is too busy talking.

I take Ann to a lounge to read. She reads two short mysteries per- fectly, yawning now and then. I don't know why she needs help. I go back to the classroom to help Dave with math, but I am told that he ran away with his brother over the weekend. I think about him, too small to be in with the big, tough boys, and wonder if he will ever come back. I feel empty.

I take the new girl to the nurse's office for a checkup. She shows me the way. Kids seem to know directions in a new place better than I do. I could use their help instead.

I don't know what to say to her except a few superficial lines. I don't want to get into a heavy conversation and should not ask prob- ing questions. She seems very proper. What is happening with her, I wonder, but I'm not her counselor and don't know if asking would help. I could be her friend, but friends don't barge into somebody's life. So here is my ethical problem: How should I approach them?

I have to remember to bring a tennis racquet for Matthew. He hits a tennis ball against the gym wall with a badminton racquet. I asked if we could practice if I bring him a tennis racquet. He said yes and is eager to play.

Wednesday, January 15

Matthew waited for me and excitedly examines the racquet. He ea- gerly takes me to the gym. We can't play outside because it is winter. On the way, Matthew opens a door to take a breath of fresh air. "I'm going crazy at this place!" he says.

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We start playing and talking. He's thir teen years old and acts as though nobody had ever played with him before. I suggest we play again Friday. I hope he has a chance to develop his ability and I have a chance to develop a relationship. However, he expects to be discharged next Monday.

I am disappointed. Once again, something is left empty. I guess this is only a shelter! Kids bounce around. No time for long-term anything. I'll just have to get used to it.

It's 10:00 a .m.- - I am supposed to help Ann with reading. She brings a magazine and we talk about something in an article. Slowly, the conversation opens up, and she starts telling me about her family and looks very sad. The conversation opens up slowly. I am glad that I can be in the position to do practical little things with the kids. This is an excellent, perhaps less scary way to approach them. I share with her my training with abuse and ask if it would help her to have a support group to talk about her own abuse. She says yes and volun- teers to talk with the girls, while I will negotiate with the staff about gett ing a support group.

The supervisor of the unit is willing to discuss with the teachers how we could rearrange the schedule to fit in a support group. I am so glad that he is open to the idea and is flexible. I pray the times will work out.

Today gym is a volleyball game. Big Michael doesn't follow the rules. He's too big and busy playing macho man and telling the others what to do. I feel frustrated but could say nothing. How should I han- dle discipline? It's not my responsibility, I don't think. Besides, I want to get close to the kids to talk with them first. Usually, they are very nice to talk to individually. It is only in a group that I notice their misbehavior and conflicts. A few things I observe in group play: ea- gerness to cover their own faults, readiness to put others down, resist- ance to instruction, know-it-all attitude, temper loss when losing, blaming others for losing. These behaviors are often displayed by the more popular kids.

At lunch time, Matthew pokes at me and grins jokingly. He is open- ing up so nicely, but there is no time for this relationship to grow; he is leaving next Monday. I hope he will be okay at home. I miss him already.

Monday, January 20

Today is Martin Luther King Jr. 's birthday celebration. It seems like a great thing to offer the k ids - -a role model for the disadvan- taged and a day off from school!

But everyone gets up late today and seems to carry an ugly face. I


get turned off because nothing seems to move. I came with enthusi- asm but can't even say a cheerful hello. The kids drag themselves out of their bedrooms. No one talks or shows any sign of being interested in life. Maybe I ought to redefine my role here today. In my mind, I turn myself from a helping hand into merely an observer. I tell myself, "Let's just watch and learn today." Thus I accept my position as a nothing to the kids on this boring day.

It turned out to be an interesting thing--a democratic meeting of all seventeen kids to decide who does what on a holiday. Cleaning chores are assigned by the staff and fun activities are chosen by the kids. One kid is in charge of telling what could be done for fun. There is time at the end for personal concerns. One girl complains about another girl jumping into her room without permission, one boy lost his electronic game and threatens to hit whoever stole it. The staff makes a note of this. The meeting goes very smoothly as everybody seems to appreciate this democratic method. No one makes unneces- sary noises.

Leo, the Indian-looking boy, is watching TV in the lounge. I try to start a conversation with him. I sit down beside him and put my arm around his shoulder. "Having a lazy day, eh?" I ask. He says, "Yah." Then very naturally and gently, he rests his head on my shoulder. I feel so touched. It's the soft feeling when something seems to be melt- ing inside between the kid and me.

I wish I could hug the kids more often, but I must be careful. I must learn small talk also, so I will not scare them. Some kids are afraid they might be melted away. They must be tough and put on a hard face. They have learned at a very early age the hardening of the heart.

I gave Rob a big hug the other day because he looked so sad. He said, "You hugged me half to death there!" "Oh no, you're not even half dead yet," I replied and hoped he will get used to it. Today, his chore is to do everybody's laundry in the laundry room. I think it's pretty hard for kids like him to do that. "Do you do the laundry at home?" I ask, but he says, "I don't got no home." He tells me he came from the street. "I got little tricks I do to live on that I'm not gonna tell you." Now I understand where he got his language, why he fought the teachers and hit a girl the other day and got kicked out of school.

W e d n e s d a y , J a n u a r y 22

Wendy tells me a few things about her family and the abuse. She wants to start the support group now, but we have no time to fit it in.

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I remember the supervisor said we should be able to arrange time for important things, but nothing seems to move. I have not heard from him. This kid may be gone before we even start the group.

The supervisor is busy. He has not yet had time to discuss the schedule with the teachers. The staff is also busy and tired. I guess they're run down. The schedule in the morning is for school and struc- tured activities. I don't know if we will be able to have the support group, as I can't come in the afternoon.

I am getting bored with not much to do. I would like to get more personal with the kids, but no time is scheduled for me. I find my heart a little less touched by the kids' sad stories. They are so com- mon that they seem to lose their impact on my emotions. I must not let that happen. I wonder if that 's one of the reasons some social workers or counselors seem to become less caring and just do the job. Am I, too, gett ing callous, this early?

It's very hard for me to have personal conversations with the kids; there is no time and place for privacy. Not a quiet place. Never at the right time.

At lunchtime, Ann doesn't eat much. She looks sad and depressed, but I can't talk to her in the lunch room in front of all the kids. I have to leave right after lunch, so I ignore her. Adults are too busy for kids. Oftentimes, they have to turn away, either to deny that certain things exist or to admit that they have no power.

Friday, January 24

Dave has come back. When he sees me, he gives me a nice, big hug. Then Leo rushes over and holds both of us in his arms. What a neat moment this is. Such warm and affectionate kids. They move me to tears, but I see a strange sadness in Leo's eyes. It makes my heart sink.

I jus t realized that the kids draw me to themselves. At least those kids who get in touch with me. Social interaction is not a one-way giving. A response creates more actions, and the system goes around. Parents interact more with responsive and affectionate kids. The withdrawn easily go into limbo.

Matthew is leaving. I had not believed what he told me. I only believed what the supervisor said about not receiving that information yet. The kid knows what 's going on with himself better. But I did not t rust him and did not say goodbye when I last saw him. I am very disappointed with myself. From now on, every time a kid I know leaves, I will t ry to say goodbye. There should be a clear point of cutting off a relationship if it must be broken. I wonder how often


these kids have to break off theirs without a chance to say goodbye? How often they have a point in time to mourn the past? I wonder, do the hurts just linger?

Monday, January 27

At gym time Rob is angry at John for not getting the ball into the basket. He can't stand losing. He rushes over to John and threatens to hit him. John quits. Rob jumps, swears, and hurls himself around like a wild animal. I've never seen one failed basket result in so much torture. I don't know what to do. Neither do the regular staff. I tell John, "Never mind him, that 's the only thing he learned on the street."

Once again, this discipline issue bothers me. What do you do when one kid puts down another? How do you help both parties to regain their self-esteem? Will discipline help? Will it help the one who does the putt ing down, which often stems from even lower self-esteem? Is this a real problem or is it over with the teen years? I have seen enough of this behavior in this shelter to know that something must be done. The kids should be sheltered from the primary source of their problem-- low self-esteem.

I feel sorry for Rob and try to talk to him after the fight. He says, "What the f--k are you following me for? I'm gonna hit you!" I smile, quit trying, and wait until he has calmed down. He carries that ugly face around for half an hour then turns into a playful little kid again. He always acts like a big shot who needs nobody. He's only skin and bones, and at fourteen years old with long blond hair he looks like a girl. Every other word is a swear word; he swears everybody away. I ask him to sit down and talk. He says, "What the f--k for?" I say, "Because I like you." He has to go to the dentist (I notice his two front teeth are gone from another fight yesterday), so I give him a big hug and say, " I love you" before he leaves.

Wednesday, January 29

It's - 20 ~ today. I wait half an hour for the bus. This weather has the potential to keep people from doing good things. I finally get to the shelter feeling cold in my body and heart. Most of the kids are sick today. Michael has a fever. I hold his hand for a hello. This is my effort to fight off the heavy mask he puts on with his tough act. I want to talk with him about tough acts, telling him that there's a nice and gentle guy in him that wants to come out, but I'd bet ter not.

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Maybe what I am doing now is best. He asks me to come and sit by him in class. I am glad to hear that. He turns soft today, but I cannot sit with him because I have to work with Carole in math class.

Carole is acting like a baby today. She whines to the teacher: "I don't want to do this. I don't want to work. I'm not gonna do anything." I tell her, "You have a choice: do Math here in class or go to the other room." She says she wants to stay here, but she refuses to work. I tell her I had to wait half an hour for the bus, walk five blocks in this 20-degree-below-zero weather to get here and now feel very cold. I ask her to move closer to the heater with me so I can warm up. She stops acting childish and moves willingly to the back of the class. Then I start shivering, so I say to her, "I feel terribly cold in my chest. Could you give me a hug to see if I can feel better?" She does. "I feel warmer, thank you," I say, and I hug her back. Then we start math together, in peace.

Her reactions are wonderful. These kids, though deprived of love, have the potential to give if they are given a chance.

There are only a few kids going to gym today. Those who are sick can stay in their rooms. I don't know if I should visit them or let them rest. Gym is boring. All they do is shoot the basketball. I have nothing to do, I tell myself, so I should leave. A person can always say that, especially when she is bored and discouraged. I feel disoriented today. The counselors are also grouchy and tired. Let's hope it's only because of the weather.

Friday, January 31

I take today off. I was very bored, discouraged, and frustrated on Wednesday. I was bored because the kids were sick in bed, discouraged because I see no goal in my volunteering here, and frustrated because I cannot do the things that I see the kids need. The supervisor hasn't talked to me about the support group I suggested two weeks ago. I see no time to fit it in.

The kids don't care much about school work, yet they have to be there, sitting, yawning, slumping over the desks, daydreaming, get- t ing time over with. They have too much time on their hands. Maybe this whole thing is just "a getting things over with" business. I would like to get my hands on the kids' business, but I am in no position to do anything. I am just a volunteer. I can give a few hugs here and there. I can talk superficially with a few of them--some don't look at me, some say "Hi," some don't care. All of them switch moods every day. I am the one who must stay stable, but I feel numb today. I would like very much to help them, yet I have to wait for the right


time, the right schedule. I have to wait to gain their trust, to make them feel loved and accepted before anything. I have to wait to find a way to know them better and their needs better, and get them to open up- -ye t there is no time for personal matters. The kids are turned off and so am I.

M o n d a y , F e b r u a r y 3

Today the kids are off from school. I did not expect that. I sit around doing nothing for half an hour waiting for them to clean up. I have thought about interviewing the kids about what they think people should do to help them. Instead of trying to do things for them, I could get them to help me know what to do.

Rob remains after the others have gone to their activities. He swears and runs from me playing his version of hide and seek. Then he shows one of the staff a poem he wrote on love. I sense that he wants to show it to me, but he asks me not to look at it. I say okay and ask if I can interview him. "What the f--k you interview me for?" he asks. I tell him about my study, my need to ask for his opinions, and my interest in copying his poem. After a lot of fuss, he reads it to me:

Love

Love means a lot to me. Sometimes when I'm just sitting around I feel the need for somebody to say I love you. I have a certain love and relationship. This kind of love and relationship is a special kind. It's a true kind, and a helpful kind, and it's with someone tha t means a whole hell of a lot to me, and yes that 's you. And to you, I have something to say: I love you all the same.

Author's name withheld

Rob runs off into his room as soon as he finishes reading. I am all bewildered. I cannot match the poem with its tough, swearing author. I go to his room and knock on the door. "What the f--k you come in

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here for?" he yells. After a while, he opens the door a crack to look for me. "You need somebody to say I love you," I yell back, "but you keep swearing me away. I am here to do just that." He lets me in and we start the interview. Rob tells me his sad life story, which includes more painful experiences than that of any grownup I know.

Friday, February 7

First thing today, Ann asks about the support group. I ask her to talk directly with the supervisor to get better results. I also tell her that I will try to come in the afternoon once a week if necessary.

Later, the supervisor finally talks to me. He starts interviewing me on my knowledge and experience in group work. I tell him about my courses and the abuse group training that I went through, and that I think such a group would be a good experience for the girls. After a moment of hesitation, he agrees to let me do the group. I sense that he doesn't trust me and his decision, so I ask for a staff member to be the leader. He seems relieved.

It will take three days to meet with the therapist and another week for the therapist to talk to his supervisor. Three weeks have gone by since we first talked about this. Now Wendy is gone. I did not expect this to get so complicated. I guess everything has to be documented, including my qualifications to be facilitating the support group. They [the shelter?] might not even accept me, the therapist said. I guess they have to be careful with what they're doing for the kids. I accept the complex system with resentment. I am tired of delay and talks. I don't even want to care anymore, but I do. I'll just wait and see, again.

Monday, F e b r u a r y 10

I talk with the therapist, who tells me about problems he has been having with the kids here. Many kids don't want therapy and many choose not to talk, so he uses various techniques to focus attention away from his young clients' problems to reduce anxiety.

It is hard to make the kids deal with their problems and difficult to get them to come back. Very different from adult treatment. The kids get discharged right in the middle of a program, after he spends a lot of time and effort, which means money, to arrange treatment for them. Many kids have been damaged and don't want to get hurt again, but we try to get them to talk, open up, and get close to us. Then they get placed somewhere else and have to experience separa-


tion again. We wonder if that does even more damage. He tries to nur ture them, hoping somehow to let them know that he under- stands, so that they can have a good experience here. That 's the best one can do in this situation.

Monday, February 24

I haven' t wri t ten a word in two weeks. Is it possible that I am burn- ing out? The therapist agreed to do the group, for which I am glad. Ann doesn't talk to me anymore. The first meeting started without her. I didn't come the next day. I feel useless here.

Rob left without saying goodbye. I felt sad. I wanted to tell him that I care, but he ran from me and refused to say goodbye. The therapist said I should be careful not to scare the kids, because some have been hur t and don't want to get close to people again. I guess it's like feed- ing the starving: provide a good but slow diet, otherwise they might get sick. Oh Lord, I only wanted to tell him how much I care for him, since he told me his story. I leave crying, remembering his helpless- looking mother and his tiny figure hauling his belongings in garbage bags and a cardboard suitcase. An alcoholic husband, a lost son, and a family broken up. Somebody help this lady! I couldn't even say a word.

Today I s tar t a new day. New kids coming in. I decide to take things more slowly and not to care so much. I don't like it when I have to be so careful. Why can't I say what I want to and what I think the kids need to hear? It is very hard to say the right thing at the right time. I'll jus t have to take things as they come.

Wednesday, February 26

There's a picture on the wall here with the Indian saying, "To give a man his dignity is the highest service of all."

Three new girls came last week and joined the group. Michael teases the new, t iny twelve-year-old girl in the elevator. The counselor tells him to stop, but he seems to get so much fun out of it that he doesn't mind the counselor. I feel helpless, like when I heard another girl insult and threaten Charlene. I should have said or done something to stop the abuse, but the counselors were there. I waited for them to take action but, as usual, nothing effective was done. I myself don't know how to stop one kid's violent behavior and protect the other one's self-esteem.

I want to be effective on both sides: To stop one kid's action without putt ing him down and to make the other kid not feel worse about

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himself. I think these kids have received enough put-down remarks for their whole lives; they surely don't need any more when they come here. How can I say something firmly enough to stop a wrong action, yet gently enough not to hurt the person's self-esteem? I think a lot about what I could say, but I don't. Next time I will, but next time things will not happen the same way with the same kids. Or will they? Saying the right things at the right t ime-- i t might take a life- time to learn.

Rob (he came back to the shelter a few days ago) had another fight with a new boy in class, Rob's third fight this month. The second time, after I had made contact with him, he had lashed out at the teacher and at Carole. This time the counselor held him back, but he got away and ran out of the building. My heart sank when the counselor told me that he was gone. I was speechless. I wanted to cry. I felt so sad and worried for him. He was on the street again, with nothing to eat and no winter jacket. He would return to stealing and selling drugs. I sat down, powerless and hopeless, praying with tears for him to come back again.

He did come back, half an hour later, after playing outside in the park. I had gotten all shook up for nothing. I should be getting used to this kind of emotional upheaval by now. Yes, I've seen the ups and downs in the way they treat me and the staff, one moment affectionate, the next cold. When they are in a bad mood, they heap insults on the counselors. I was waiting for my turn, and, today, after I helped Carole in class, it came with her angry remark, "She spoils my day." I considered it a lightweight insult because the therapist had had a worse experience with this same girl when she tried to run away yesterday. He tried to reason with her, but she got angry and shouted at him, "You four-eyed f--ker!" It hurt for a moment, but then we couldn't help laughing. How cruel the kids can be, but at times they cracked me up. I left laughing today, thinking, this place is a circus, tool

It is not a laughing matter when the kids really get violent, though, like Rob's fight in class today: Rob holding up a chair to hit the new boy, the counselors and teachers all running to protect him. The big counselor jumps in, holds Rob back, wrestles with him and drags him away. Rob keeps yelling all the way downstairs. I feel hurt inside. I want to protect him. I want to get him out of this situation, because he doesn't feel any better about it than I do. He can't control his an- ger. I wish I had enough guts to say, "It's okay, it's safe here. You don't have to be afraid anymore." I wish I had taken his hand and held his shaking body to hug away the fear that urges him to fight back against the whole world. But I just stood against the wall, speechless and powerless.


M o n d a y , M a r c h 3

My first greeting this morning was Lisa's complaint, "I want to scream!" I took her to the empty lounge and said, "Now if you want to scream, scream! .... No," she said, holding her head, "no. I wouldn't now, but I had a headache last night and it still hurts. I was in the bathroom, and Dawn came in and yelled at me. She hit me on the head and smacked me across my face. "What was she mad about?" I asked. "Because I called Carole a bitch and she thought I said it to her. I can't do anything here, everybody hates me." "What makes them hate you so? .... Because I swear and I call them bitches, but I don't swear as much as I used to. I jus t stand at the door and they yell at me. They get mad at everything I do. I don't want to fight back because I would lose my points. I could have hit her back and smack her face but I didn't." "I can't think of anything you do that would cause all that. Why is it?" I ask. "Because I am a bitch," she said.

I startled at what I heard, so boldly and honestly stated. Oh, my God, this little twelve-year-old girl, the smallest I've ever seen, honestly believes she is a bitch. She is probably the scapegoat for all the girls, and even the boys, because I've seen them tease her, put her down, and look at her with disdain. "Listen," I said, "you are not a bitch, you are not a bad girl, don't believe that lie. You have every right to tell them off if they t reat you that way. You have the right to stand up for yourself, and that doesn't make you a bad girl." Lisa replied, "When the police came to my house they talked to my dad. After they left, my dad smacked me across my face, and I don't like anybody to do that to me." So . . . she's learning not to fight b a c k . . , too small to fight back physically, too helpless to fight back mentally.

It is almost time to go to school, so I quickly say, "Tomorrow you'll bring this to the group meeting, tell the girls that if you do anything wrong like swearing at them or stealing, for example, then they could ask you to quit doing that. She showed a little anxiety in her face and body. "They don't have the right to t reat you that way." "But I have stolen before . . ." I gave her a hug. "I do wrong things, too," I say, "but that doesn't make me a bitch. You are a good girl, and they can't t reat you that way. We'll take it to the group tomorrow."

John, the one who has been putting up a cold wall around himself, turns soft today. I thought I should leave him alone, but he is one of the three who enthusiastically raise thei r hands to ask for my help. I am glad to see the change. I have to split my time among the three of them, so he says, "It's okay, I can do it. Smart people don't need help." "Smart people need help sometimes," I say. So he says, "Yah, sometimes." And I add, "It's good that you ask for help when you need it." He concludes, "Yes, I do." It's a nice surprise. A response for every-

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thing I said. What got into him today? Is he reaching out, or is it jus t the mood for the day? I don't have the answer, but after he leaves, I find out that his mother was murdered some months ago. I now understand his wall.

In the meantime, Dawn was sent to her room for not doing her schoolwork. As a result, she is not allowed to use the phone. She comes into the office and tries to use the phone, but a counselor takes it away. She grabs a cup on the way out and smashes it against the wall; ceramic pieces scatter all over the hall.

I knock on Dawn's door. She lets me in. She is lying on the bed, pouting. A nice-looking girl, she had not shown any violent behavior until she hit Lisa last night. During our support group meeting, she showed the cuts on her wr i s t - - she cuts herself when she's mad. I was very concerned about this and wanted to tackle this problem, but the therapist did not push her to talk about it. So today I ask her, "What made you so mad? .... I'm sick of this place," she cries. "I can't do anything around here. I can't smoke when I want to. I'm just so sick of this place. I don't belong here. I want to call my mom and my social worker, but they don't let me." I ask, "Is it because you didn't work in school?" She says, "Yah, but I am so sick of all this. I've been here so long, and I haven' t been outside for two days. I jus t want to get out of here. I don't belong here." I ask, "Why did you have to come here?" She replies, "I don't know. I have to wait to go to court, and I want to go home. I haven' t seen my family for a long time. But they don't let me." "You miss home very much!" I say. She says, "Yah." and cries. So I say, "I feel so sad for you, Dawn. I would go crazy, too, if I had to stay in this place for so long."

Then I look at her wrist, "The scars are almost gone." She says, "Yah." I ask, "You wanted to get rid of yourself?." She replies "Yah." I ask, "What made you hate yourself that much?" She states, "This place!" I feel a lump in my throat. It shocks me for a minute. This place represents all her problems, all her troubles, all the things she's done wrong and all the wrongs others have done against her. She wants none of them, yet this is her identity. She has been sucked into the system, and there's no way she can get out of it unless she disap- pears. Somewhere there's another Dawn, but she can't find her. How can she, if she doesn't know where to look?

Friday, March 7

Rob ran away again! The school and shelter cannot hold a street kid. Here, I had thought, at least he did not have to steal to live, but one does not live by bread alone. I had not found a way and time to talk with him, nor a chance to find him a winter jacket. Tonight, it's fourteen below z e r o . . , and where is Rob?


M o n d a y , M a r c h 10

Lisa and I took a walk to the store today. At the age of twelve, she looks like an eight-year-old acting like an adult to make up for her size. On the way back, she told me her story about the abuse at home. The kids here at the shelter don't hit her anymore because she has stood up for herself during the group meetings. They are still mean, but they do not touch her. She seems happier.

She took me into her room to show me the ceramic works she had done at school: a beautiful off-white vase with rusty autumn leaves painted in a free-flowing style, a gray cat with black hair strands, and a blue crystal rabbit. All were displayed on her desk, with books used for background colors. They were beautiful. "What an artist you are, Lisa." They looked so fine and fragile. I asked her if she wanted a foam padded box to protect her ceramics when she moved. She said, "Yes," with a proud grin. We were so glad together.

I noticed in front of her display a big Bible on the desk. I was surprised that she had even brought it with her. "Are you a Christian?" I asked. "Yes, I am." "Where did you learn to be one? .... From my foster mom. I like to go to church." she said.

I randomly flipped open the Bible. It read:

The Lord said, "Go down to the potter's house and there I will give you a message." So I went down to the potter's house and I saw him working at the wheel. But the pot he was shaping from the clay was marred in his hands, so the potter formed it into another pot, shaping it as it seemed best to him. Then the Lord said, "Like clay in the hand of the potter, so are you in my hand." (Jer. 18:2-6)

Excitedly, I shouted, "Ah, how about that, Lisa? Remember you broke your first clay cat that you made and you felt so bad?" She answered, "Yah, I was about to die!" I continued, "And now you've made new beautiful things just like the potter! What do you think?" Lisa grinned. "All the wicked things, God can destroy them and make new things again." I was so surprised at what she knew. Gladly, I reached out my arms to her and said, "That is so wonderful, Lisa. All the wicked things that happened to your life, God can destroy them and make you a new life again. You are like clay in his hand." Lisa hugged me tight. All the worries I had had for her were washed away.

I went home feeling so light inside. I thought about looking for a box to hold her clay pieces. Never before in my life had the thought of finding a little empty box brought such joy to my heart.

Journal at the shelter

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