a snowstorm on slippery, treacherous roads. How inviting those window candles looked when I came up my driveway, the Christmas tree splendid with lights and all our old ornaments hanging on the fresh green boughs. Home. Cozy, warm—what a counterpoint to Touchstone’s dreariness and the sullenness of the girls that afternoon. Maybe Christmas wouldn’t feel so bad this year.
Gratitude, so long a stranger in my life, filled me as I walked into the kitchen and hugged my surprised husband hard.
I Am Not a Juvenile Delinquent
At our first meeting of the new year, I’d announced with what I hoped was ringing resolve, “Girls, I want to make a fresh start for this new year. I still really want to help you all tell your important stories, but I’m thinking of coming only every other week. You’ve been disrespectful a lot, and some of you don’t participate at all. It makes me wonder if you really want to do this poetry group.”
The girls didn’t respond with reassurance, just looked blank and sad.
Angel, the staff person assigned to the group that day, spent the session riding the exercise bike that usually sat unused in the back of the dorm basement.
At least Mayra had moved the couches and chairs into a circle without being asked, and was pleased to see her piece typed up. Brisa looked awake for once, but Ana’s eyes were already closing. Nia was stretched out on another couch. Kaylee had finally left and taken with her the infectious liveliness she’d brought to the group.
“Please, girls, focus up! I am speaking to you. And sit up, Nia and Ana. We are going to work on group poems today, but first we’ll try ‘I remember.’ Just write about the first thing that comes to your mind when you think that phrase, okay?”
During this write, Ana continued to sleep. Nia confronted her, said she wasn’t showing respect for any of us. Ana got up and went to Angel for support.
“Ana, you are free to leave the group if that’s what you choose, but I hope you will stay for the rest of today.”
“I need to leave, Sharon.” She went to call someone on the phone. Angel was talking out loud on his walkie-talkie while we were writing.
“Angel, could you please be quiet?” I said. “You are not showing respect for us.”
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