Mike

Ball

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May 12, 2008

Wonder Where You’re Going When You’re 21?

Earlier this week I had the opportunity to present Lost Voices to a national conference of a group who call themselves JJET – Juvenile Justice Educators and Trainers. These are professionals from all over the country who train people to work with troubled boys and girls who have gotten themselves on the wrong side of the law.

In case you are not familiar with Lost Voices, it’s an amazing program for at-risk youth that I’ve had the opportunity to be involved with. In it, I team up with roots music artists like Kitty Donohoe and Josh White Jr. to help the kids translate their thoughts, hopes and fears into folk and blues music. Then we help them stage a concert to perform their music for the world.

I conducted a workshop at the conference, in which all the attendees went through the same song-writing process I use in the Lost Voices programs. We started with a brainstorming session, with the participants throwing out anything that happened to be on their minds to be considered as potential song themes.

I wasn’t particularly surprised that what quickly surfaced as their dominant thought was the kids. After all, these are people who have dedicated their lives to the business of trying to rescue young people who have lost their way. They are all deeply caring and sensitive individuals.

What I did find striking was the way they expressed their feelings. Here’s how their song started:

Wonder where you’re going when you’re 21?

When you don’t have a dad who is missing his son

Been living in a place where nobody comes

Wonder if you’ll live to be someone.

You’re hungry for a dad to see your game

Who will stand up in the crowd and shout your name

Hungry for a man to say,

“That’s my kid!”

Right there - “Hungry for a man to say, That’s my kid!” - is the refrain for the entire song. What better way is there to describe the issue that lies at the heart of the struggle many of these children are going through?

It occurs to me that I have been unbelievably lucky as a father. You see, I was always able to stand up in the crowd for my son. I had the opportunity to watch him portray a singing turnip (or something like that) in the second grade pageant, and to coach his hockey teams. I was around to teach him how to water ski, how to shave and how to tie a neck tie. I was there to snap pictures of him looking embarrassed in his cap and gown when he graduated from high school.

I made lots and lots of mistakes along the way, and I was far from the perfect dad, but at least my son always knew that I was around and that I loved him. Now he has turned out to be a fine young man, with a college degree and a good job, and he’s beginning to consider starting a family of his own.

Then I think about the kids I’ve worked with through Lost Voices. Each one has traveled a different road to wind up in the juvenile justice system, and each one has to travel his or her own, often rough, road back into the world. They want to find their way, but they just can’t do it without help.

And there at the JJET conference I was surrounded by people who go to work each day and try to give them that help. They endure the emotional roller coasters, the joys and disappointments and successes and tragedies that go with the job. I could see that, along with all the sophisticated rehabilitation and treatment techniques they bring to their work, they bring another, very fundamental, tool.

You see, they are also willing to stand up for these struggling young people and say, in their own way, “Those are my kids.”

Copyright © 2008, Michael Ball. Distributed exclusively by North Star Writers Group. May not be republished without permission.