A Letter to the Children

Twenty-five years ago, when I eagerly embraced the idea of becoming a mentor, I looked forward to sharing what I had learned from my own life experience with children and youth. I looked forward to guiding them, one by one, to a brighter future. I think most mentors go into this work wanting to make a difference somehow. But it didn’t take long for me to discover that I would be the one to reap the greatest benefits within the mentor/mentee relationship.

So, I am sending out a letter to you, kids from 5 years of age to young adult. My superheroes. You taught me strength, courage, perseverance, and how to embrace joy in the face of adversity. It would be impossible for me to explain fully what you have given me without telling you a story--the story of Terrance.

In 1998, I became a part of the Gateways program, introduced at Maple Lane School, a maximum- security juvenile incarceration facility in Washington State. The program was developed by Dr. Carol Minugh at the Evergreen State College. In short, students from the college studied together with incarcerated youth. I was a student at Evergreen at the time, beginning my college education at the age of 40.

One day during class at Maple Lane School, we were reviewing a chapter from The People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn. The young man sitting next to me leaned in and pointed to the page in my book. He noted that we had both highlighted the same passage.

“Look,” this kid pointed out. “We think alike.”

I smiled and asked him his name. Terrance.

I didn’t want to contradict what Terrance had said, but here were my thoughts at the time.

You must be kidding me. I’m 40. You’re 16. You are a black kid, and I am an adult white woman. But more to the point, you’re locked up and I’m not. How could we possibly think alike? I remained quiet, deciding that, in that moment, nothing good could come from my disagreeing with Terrance.

Terrance went on to tell me that he had written a piece about his incarceration experience, having been locked up since he was fourteen. Sentenced to juvenile life for having put a bullet into another human being. The title, Incarceration is Death.

“Wanna read it?” he asked me with a snark and threw some papers my way. He was obviously carrying his story around with him. Literally.

“Maybe if you ask nicely.” I threw the words back at him the same way he had flung his script at me. But with a bit more humor added in,

“Ok, pleeeease read it?”

So, I read it. What a mess! A diatribe of ranting and raving, intertwined with profanity and self-pity, all about how the system had been and still was to blame for all of Terrance’s troubles. What the heck was I supposed to tell him? First, I didn’t want to burst his creative bubble and second, I was a little intimidated by him and his criminal record. Just as I had been intimidated by the heavy metal clanging noise of gates snapping closed behind me, every time I entered the school. But as I finished up the read, one particular sentence caught my attention. It was eloquent. It was beautiful. This kid was a writer. If he could get over himself, we could make something of this. Turns out, I would have to get over myself, too.

The next week when I met with Terrance, I didn’t tell him that most of his story was crap. Instead, I pointed out the one elegant sentence.

“This is beautiful. Powerful. You are a writer.” That’s what I told him. I offered Terrance a book on creative non-fiction writing and he devoured it, wanting to know more.

So, I got permission to work with Terrance on his story. Being a published writer myself, I had a few tips for him. As we went, Terrance learned how to frame his experience differently. We had fun. We grew together. And after the months it took to rewrite and polish his memoir, I came to understand. Yes, Terrance, we think alike.

So much of what Terrance wrote and how he expressed himself still gives me chills.

“…the shadowy symmetrics of my 6 by 9 cell, when it’s lights out. There hasn’t been any snow yet this January. Instead, the rain has formed small ponds, reminding me where I have been evaporating for the past 3 years.”

Against all odds, the Maple Lane School administration allowed us to publish this extraordinary piece in a book called Through the Eyes of the Judged.

And now, over 20 years later, Terrance has a college degree from The Evergreen State College to his credit. He lectures and advocates for juvenile justice reform, and for the importance of early intervention and the crucial connection between the two.

Watch the video where Terrance talks about his Gateways experience HERE.

Now, it’s true that Terrance learned a few things from me as his mentor.

Still, I will never be able to repay any of you. I owe you so much. You have changed me forever. I have learned to drop assumptions. I have learned to let go of the need to be the expert and to just be with you, because you are the true experts and because being there is all you ever really needed me to do. And during times in my own life when I felt as if I was the one going down for the last time, getting out of bed each day to be with you saved me. You are my superheroes. There is a moment in our work as mentors when the mentee becomes our superhero. All we have to do as mentors is to be present for that moment, so we don’t miss it when it arrives.

I hold each of you deep in my heart. And I hope this letter of love and appreciation might catch the eye of someone who is thinking about becoming a mentor. I think you would tell them to jump right in with an open heart and an open mind, ready to learn the important life lessons you have to teach.