I used to run a life skills group at an alternative high school for 10 at-risk boys. These boys were products of broken homes and expelled from their regular schools due to various run-ins with the law. Many of these boys were one adjudication away from being locked up in jail. All were mandated to see me once a week for 12 weeks in my group.
The boys called me “Miss,” something I learned while living in San Antonio is a title used for women, usually out of politeness, but sometimes as a safe alternative to a name they didn’t remember or know.
Our group met on Wednesdays, and at first, I was met with loads of resistance. How would I, a middle-aged white “Miss” from the suburbs, possibly connect with 10 Hispanic boys that had lived lives the polar opposite from my own? But each week I went, they all showed up, and we formed a routine. The first day, I gave each boy a journal and assigned a random writing topic. Each boy could either write and share, or write and close their journal. Upon finishing, I had to collect each journal and pencil per the school rules, because in this particular environment, a pencil could be used as a weapon. We set group rules, which included one person talking at a time (which was always a problem, as they boys tended to speak over each other); no disrespecting other people’s differing thoughts or views and minimal profanity.
One boy in the group, who I’ll call Angel, was usually unruly during group and spoke out of turn often. I was constantly redirecting him. He was on the physically smaller side, wore glasses and had a slight lisp. I learned he was bounced around from home to home as a young child, most recently living with his Grandmother in Oklahoma. He was sent back to San Antonio to live with his mother the prior year, a mother who, according to him, had various children and men in and out of the home, with case workers visiting on the regular. The past year, Angel made some bad choices and landed himself in the juvenile school as well as my group.
At the end of group, I always asked for a rundown of everyone’s plans for the upcoming weekend. One week, Angel told me he was excited because an uncle was driving him up to Oklahoma after school on Friday to visit his Grandmother, and he was looking forward to visiting old friends in the neighborhood and having the famous peach cobbler his Grandmother promised to make. He was so excited and enthusiastic about the weekend and I could see a shift in his usual body language. I told him to have safe travels and that I couldn’t wait to hear about his visit during our next group. I left the school happy for Angel and his obvious anticipation and joy, something he didn’t demonstrate very often.
The next week I showed up for group, and they boys walked in, single file in their jeans and white t-shirts (the school uniform), hands in their pockets (Standard Operating Procedure for safety in this particular school environment). I saw Angel and said, “Hey, did you bring me back a piece of that peach cobbler from Oklahoma?” He didn’t have much of a reaction, In fact, he didn’t answer me at all, which made me a bit curious as well as worried. Did I say something to offend him? Should I not have brought it up? Did the weekend go awry, with a family fight?
The boys sat down, and I watched Angel. The boys were rowdy as usual, but Angel just sat and stared at the table. We did our journal exercise, and Angel glanced over at me as he wrote. After notebooks and pencils were collected, I asked who wanted to start telling me about their weekend. One boy started recounting about the movie he and his girlfriend watched. Angel interrupted, normally a set group-rule no-no, but one I allowed in this particular moment.
“Miss, I can’t believe you said that about the peach cobbler,” he said. Uh oh, I thought. I blew it. I should have not said a word unless he brought up the weekend. Rookie mistake. I began silently cursing myself for even mentioning the cobbler and his trip.
Before I could answer, he continued. “No one ever remembers anything I tell them” he said. “I told you about my Grandmother’s peach cobbler and you remembered. No one ever listens to me the way you do. My mom didn’t even ask me about my weekend. You always remember what I tell you from last group. I wish I lived with you,” he said.
“Yeah, Miss always remembers what we say, it scares me sometimes,” chimed in another boy, one who recently revealed at the age of 16, he was going to be a father.
To me, asking Angel about his weekend wasn’t anything special or extraordinary – as a counselor, after all, my job is to listen. That moment made me realize the power of listening – not listening to talk next or to get your point across, but actively listening. These boys looked forward to having a person listen to them each week for an hour-and-a-half. The times they all talked over each other was simply because they wanted to be heard.
One of the biggest complaints I hear from children of all ages I work with is that they feel like no one listens to what they have to say. When someone is talking, just listen. Look them straight in the eye when they are talking with you. Ask someone a question about themselves, their work, school, about what is going on in their lives. It’s a small thing to do, but one that can leave a big impact. 10 boys in an alternative high school showed me what a difference listening can make, and what a gift it is to give to someone else.
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