[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
"Come on, we'll see about this."
He led me back to the desk. "Georgia, set it up tonight for this
man. The works."
The girl stared at me coldly, showing no trace of the love she
had expressed a moment ago when she thought she was rid of me.
"Mario, you know we don't let strangers watch."
"Strangers!" he cried indignantly. "This is Jason Striker! My
judo sensei. He's done more good for more kids-" He continued
with a deluge of praise that had my ears burning. I often wish my
students could talk about me without exaggerating. Well, without
too much exaggeration, maybe. The upshot was that I found myself
invited to their evening meeting. I had, it seemed, a connection
after all.
I came, of course. After the scrambling I had had to do to gain
admission, I viewed Strate with a certain cynicism, but I still wanted
to learn. Maybe they had reason to distrust strangers; maybe drugusing
gangs tried to infiltrate their meetings and break them up.
So I tried to keep an open mind.
88
It was impressive. There may have been a thousand people
cramming that warehouse, inmates, parents, and selected members
of the community, such as myself. If every one of these visitors
had worked as hard as I had to get here, they were a determined
lot.
We all sat in a mighty circle on the floor, for there were not
enough chairs by a factor of a hundred or so, and we sang songs.
They sang, anyway; I tried to follow, but music is not my forte,
and I didn't know the tune or words. Even so, I could appreciate
the skill with which the Strates sang. They did multi-part harmonies,
and the beat was exact. When they started, they started precisely
together; when they stopped, it was on a dime, with no sour
note. There must have been a lot of practice and a lot of discipline
to get them that sharp.
Then there was an expectant silence. After a moment a young
boy stood up and spoke. "I'm Bill. I'm twelve years old. I've been
on pot, hash, peyote, speed, and acid since I was nine. I saw the
older kids doing it. I wanted to get in with the crowd. I felt awful
guilty, but I didn't really care about myself. My folks didn't know
I was skipping school. I stole money to support my habit. When
they caught me, I wanted to die. The juvenile court sent me to
Strate, and I was really scared. I didn't want to come here. Now I
know I was wrong. I hurt my folks. I wouldn't let them help me. I
don't want to touch drugs again, ever. Not even a trank. I just
want to go home and make it up to my folks. Get a job, make
something of myself. Thank you for helping me. I love you."
"I love you!" the Strates in the crowd cried as he sat down.
I was amazed. This boy, by his own admission, had been on
half a dozen drugs, in and out of juvenile court, and now was
confessed and reformed-and he was only twelve! Apparently Strate
had saved him from a lifetime of addiction and crime, and had set
him firmly on the road to good citizenship. What more could
anyone ask?
Another person rose-a girl in her late teens, I judged. "I'm
Jill. I was hooked on pot, acid, cocaine, hash, alcohol, speed. I
89
wanted to be grown-up. I thought I was smart, that I had things
together. But I was really very lonely. I ran away from home when
I was fourteen. I tried everything to feel good. Nothing worked. I
lost my motivation. Anything that happened, I just said people
didn't like me, that was my excuse for everything. I had no purpose
in life, no meaning. My friends were just people around. I
was easily hurt, but I never showed it. They thought I was strong,
but I was weak. I never stood up for what I thought was right.
Now I love living, I love my parents. I love you!"
Tears were streaming down her face as she sat down. "I love
you!" the others chorused again, comfortingly.
So Strate had the secret of curing addicts! Why hadn't I been
aware of this before? The world should know!
Almost immediately another girl stood up. "I'm Millie. I'm
seventeen. I was on pot, hash, acid, speed, downs, and horse . . ."
She continued her recitation, but my attention swerved. These
confessions-they were too similar to one another. Each person
had tried half a dozen addictive drugs at an early age, and gotten
in trouble for it, and come here, and now each was overflowing
with remorse and love for the group that had cured him or her. It
was like a memorized spiel, a litany, and the script was becoming
familiar. Effective the first time, but losing authenticity with every
repetition.
Perhaps these kids really believed what they were saying but I
didn't. Reform is excellent, and so are good intentions and positive
attitude. So is love. But not at the price of rote conformity. What
was Strate's program? What was happening to these kids behind
the scene, to make them speak out in public apology like this?
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]