Three strikes and we're out?

Not every story has a happy ending. Or maybe I’m being a bit presumptuous, for who can truly determine when is the “ending” for any one story? All I know is that I’m filled with joy, confidence, and motivation when I see a student graduate or accomplish other great feats of personal gain. On the other hand, my spirit saps, my heart sinks, and an overwhelming, foreboding sense of “compassion fatigue” sets in upon me whenever a string of opposite events manifests itself. And so this week, I am feeling a bit down.

I want to tell the story of three different students. Like I said above, I can’t really say their story is complete yet; in fact, I am holding on to the hope that there must be brighter chapters ahead. But I can relate to you the end of this chapter in each of their lives.

What’s so important about basketball? I’ll tell you what’s important about basketball. Basketball serves as a vehicle through which young men can be mentored through older, responsible, loving adults. Basketball teaches teamwork, discipline, and perseverance. Basketball keeps wayward youths busily engaged in positive extracurricular activities during after school practices, during late Friday night games, and on Saturdays that might otherwise be lost amidst a haze of marijuana smoke and gang banging. Basketball serves as a carrot by which improved class attendance, grades, and citizenship become mandatory. But basketball cannot last forever. Seasons begin and end. Staff members do not have endless amounts of time to be spent above and beyond what is already given during the week. My marriage cannot endure 52 weeks of Friday night “dates” wherein my wife and I are accompanied by 10 sweaty youths in the back of our van traveling from Watts to East Los Angeles or any other number of “romantic” locations (Me: “Come on, Honey, won’t it be fun to watch another game together?” She: “No, not really.”). And so basketball season ended, and not long after that, so did the school terms for two of our players: Kenny and Robert (not their real names).

Robert had recently moved from Washington to Watts a few months back. He was a real handful, a non-stop LOUD talker who always seemed to be getting into trouble. But he could DUNK, so Robert was on the team. And for a while, things seemed to work out. Robert was passing all of his classes; Robert only received one “U” on his progress report; Robert was finally finding success after endlessly bouncing around from one school to the next, and in this case, from one state to the next. But after the championship was won and the basketball banquet was held, all hell began to break lose.

Robert was becoming an uncooperative, disruptive presence in the classroom. The teachers couldn’t take it anymore. Something had to be done. So a parent conference was set up. And when Robert’s mother showed up, it became real clear why Robert was the way he was. As the conference ensued, it quickly became apparent that not all was well. She was combative and abusive, and she appeared to be high. We certainly weren’t going to receive any help from her. Robert lives with her, his baby brother, and his older step-brother (who is an adult, the son of a man Robert’s mother used to live with). Later, through a personal conversation with Robert, he revealed that his step-brother was actually the father of his mother’s baby boy. What a mess! Could that be why they left Washington? Who knows or could straighten it all out; I couldn’t. Well, a few days after the parent conference, Robert made some inappropriate sexual comments to one of my female teachers, which necessitated a suspension on my part. I called his mother this time to inform her, “Being that you just were down at the school the other day, I didn’t want to have to drag you all the way over here again. But I’d be happy to meet with you in person if you’d like.” Thankfully, she declined. Robert returned after his suspension but more of the same ensued. He cursed out a staff member and walked out of the school. His mother later told us over the phone that she was going to check him into, yet, another school. Subsequent phone calls to the house have not been returned. And so the tragic cycle continues, despite our best efforts to the contrary.

Kenny couldn’t dunk. In fact, in all honesty, he really had no basketball skills whatsoever. But I could care less; if he had any desire whatsoever to be out there, then I was not about to let this opportunity go by. I nicknamed Kenny “the Joker” because everything was hilarious to him. He’d be running up and down the court, and there’d be a gigantic smile on his face. I’d guard him during practice and he’d start giggling. The ball would bounce off of his foot and go out of bounds, and he would laugh. This didn’t exactly endear him to his teammates but, hey, he was here under our tutelage instead of being “out there” under someone else’s. And so the season progressed and Kenny managed to stay out of trouble and pass his classes, barely. I recall him salivating next to his English teacher as she computed his mid-term into his progress report grade. “Pass me with a D! Pass me with a D!” he chanted. And when his grade, indeed, was a “D,” he cheered and jumped up and down as if he’d just won the championship.

Well, not long after the season ended, Kenny missed a couple of days of school in a row. When we did some investigative inquiring, we discovered that Kenny was in jail for grand theft auto. It didn’t help that he parked the stolen car in front of his house (he was, however, a “D” student so that should be no great surprise). And so one of our counselors accompanied Kenny to court where he was released until his next court date. “Kenny,” we warned him, “you’re going to have to shoot straight these next couple of weeks. You’re on probation and there’s a good chance the judge will decide to lock you up.” A couple of weeks later, Kenny had to go back to court and we accompanied him again. Just prior to that, his probation officer had administered a drug test to him, which he apparently failed. The judge ended up sentencing him to one year in “camp.” As he was led away in handcuffs, his grandmother sobbed. “I’m sorry, Grandma, I’m sorry,” he told her as he was shuffled out the door. We later referred Grandma into one of the parent support groups that a counseling organization that partners with our Watts school site, offers. As for Kenny, hopefully we’ll see him back in class in about a year from now.

The last student I want to share about is Carlos (not his real name either). Last school term Carlos was kicked out of the school for stealing one of the teachers’ purses. He threw it in trashcan down by the train tracks; luckily one of our other students saw him do that and the purse was retrieved and returned. But we are a second (and sometimes third and fourth) chance program so Carlos was given the opportunity to return to school the next term. Things seemed to be going better, but looks can be deceiving. One day this week Carlos started crying during class. The teacher, mindful of a teen boy’s fragile ego/machismo, quickly ushered him outside to talk more privately. Soon I received a hushed phone call (I was at one of the other school sites). “We have an emergency,” she confided to me in hushed tones, “Carlos is having a personal crisis right now and he has specifically asked to meet with you.” And so I quickly made my way into what has become my mobile office on wheels, and I drove down to Watts to meet with Carlos. What I found out was heartbreaking.

Carlos’ father is a crack addict. He, his father, and his sister had been living in someone’s garage but due to his father’s drug use, they had recently been kicked out. Lately they had been staying with some people in the projects. Carlos, like many of our students, is also on probation. Although he, too, knows that he needs to shoot straight, nevertheless, he as been hanging with the wrong crowd after school. He’s been using drugs and he knows that if his probation officer drug tests him, he’ll test dirty and will be locked up. Carlos turns 18 in two weeks and at that time, he will be appearing before a judge (and he’ll also be tested). Everything seems to be falling apart for him and the thought of being sent to an adult prison versus a youth camp scares Carlos to death. I referred him to one of our partnering counseling programs. They met with him and told him they would enroll him in a drug group right away. They would also advocate on his behalf before the judge, and they believed that there was a good chance that Carlos would not be locked up, given the recent judicial trend to favor treatment over lock up. All seemed to be on its way to working out and I drove away feeling like I actually accomplished something. But the next day, Carlos surreptitiously passed a note to his teacher and then walked out. The note said that he had basically given up. He didn’t want to take the chance that he would be sent to the adult prison so he was going to go turn himself in to his probation officer now so that he would be sent to a youth camp. He ended his letter with, “Thank you for all your help. I’m sorry.”

Like I said above, not every story has a happy ending. Maybe it is stories like these that make the stories of success that much sweeter. I yearn so much to be able to write a different ending for these three youth, and maybe one day I’ll still get the chance. But we just can’t be there 24 hours a day for them. Although we gave it our 100%, and then some, it was just not enough. There are success stories, however. For every Carlos, Kenny, and Robert, there are three others who do turn it around. That’s a good feeling, but one that is always tinged with bitter-sweetness. I want to turn them all around.