Fast Fact"On average, teens are homeless for nearly seven months before receiving stable housing and services. The longer youth stay on the streets, the harder it is for them to exit street life permanently."
-Youthcare.org
Thought of the Day
But where were their mothers?
By Liz Arthur
The teen drop-in center that I visited was really cool. I expected a lot less color, a lot more drab, and a good bit of dirt – and so I was surprised when I walked through the doors into what appeared to be the coolest clubhouse ever.
You just knew, immediately, that this was a place for kids. Space not devoted to the eating and locker areas held squashy sofas, pool tables, a piano, computers, and cupboards bursting with board games and craft supplies. Art hung on every wall, pieces they’d made but that looked almost professional. The kitchen gleamed; inspiring quotes added to the room’s already colorful voice.
And the kids themselves – like the room, alive with color, alive with voice. Eating and talking and flirting just like any teens do.
One boy thanked us again for the food before stepping out to light a cigarette. Kids came together and left alone, and vice-versa. Some had backpacks, bikes, an instrument or two. None seemed to me to be wearing enough to keep warm. I observed black eye shadow and ruddy cheeks and brightly-colored fingernails, jeans with holes at the knee and rock band t-shirts and purple hair and dangly jewelry. I wondered vaguely how many outfits I have in my possession, and if any could even compare in originality. Clothes are one of the few ways the world lets these kids express themselves.
During dinner many passed by the salad and bread; they appreciated the chocolate milk. They ate neatly, cleaned up after themselves, and left; just like that, another meal over. Just like that, an evening gone by. Back to the streets, and who knows what else.
We saw their art on the walls, heard them sing and play the piano beautifully and joke around with each other. Talents wasted on a world who doesn’t know who they are, and probably never will.
I wondered the whole time what my life would be like without a family to return to – without knowing that at least one person in the world cared to know where I was or what I was doing at a given time. To these kids, being loved wasn’t a given; it was a privilege. A privilege revoked due to events beyond their control.
But, for tonight, they could come and get a free meal and talk and laugh and be kids, with a roof over their heads and their bellies full of pizza. For a short time, those other things didn’t matter.
I wondered what it would be like to be fourteen years old and living on the streets.~
The teen drop-in center that I visited was really cool. I expected a lot less color, a lot more drab, and a good bit of dirt – and so I was surprised when I walked through the doors into what appeared to be the coolest clubhouse ever.
You just knew, immediately, that this was a place for kids. Space not devoted to the eating and locker areas held squashy sofas, pool tables, a piano, computers, and cupboards bursting with board games and craft supplies. Art hung on every wall, pieces they’d made but that looked almost professional. The kitchen gleamed; inspiring quotes added to the room’s already colorful voice.
And the kids themselves – like the room, alive with color, alive with voice. Eating and talking and flirting just like any teens do.
One boy thanked us again for the food before stepping out to light a cigarette. Kids came together and left alone, and vice-versa. Some had backpacks, bikes, an instrument or two. None seemed to me to be wearing enough to keep warm. I observed black eye shadow and ruddy cheeks and brightly-colored fingernails, jeans with holes at the knee and rock band t-shirts and purple hair and dangly jewelry. I wondered vaguely how many outfits I have in my possession, and if any could even compare in originality. Clothes are one of the few ways the world lets these kids express themselves.
During dinner many passed by the salad and bread; they appreciated the chocolate milk. They ate neatly, cleaned up after themselves, and left; just like that, another meal over. Just like that, an evening gone by. Back to the streets, and who knows what else.
We saw their art on the walls, heard them sing and play the piano beautifully and joke around with each other. Talents wasted on a world who doesn’t know who they are, and probably never will.
I wondered the whole time what my life would be like without a family to return to – without knowing that at least one person in the world cared to know where I was or what I was doing at a given time. To these kids, being loved wasn’t a given; it was a privilege. A privilege revoked due to events beyond their control.
But, for tonight, they could come and get a free meal and talk and laugh and be kids, with a roof over their heads and their bellies full of pizza. For a short time, those other things didn’t matter.
I wondered what it would be like to be fourteen years old and living on the streets.~
No comments:
Post a Comment