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Written by Desmond Jones
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Tuesday, 11 May 2010 |
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A journey to remember
When Doug Winn, the school’s yearbook advisor, stopped me in the hallway and asked me if I was interested in going on this year’s Alabama trip, I hesitated to answer. It’s not every day that a man in his 50s comes up to you in the hall and asks you if you would like to travel across the country with him. “Give me a couple of days,” I responded. I went home, talked to my mom about it, and she thought it would be an interesting experience. When I saw him the next day, I told him I was up for it and that I would have the money for the tickets soon. I still didn’t think much of the journey I would soon embark on. But over the next four days, my mind would definitely be changed. Below are some of my journal entries from the most outstanding moments of the trip.
More than a word
It was a warm Saturday afternoon in Selma, Alabama. We had just finished our ten-mile walk, and we were waiting for our speakers to arrive at the slavery interpretation museum. Anticipation quickly turned into boredom as everyone started to worry about other things. Doug Winn, our chaperone, struggled to keep us focused, as we were eager to check out the large festival down the street. Just when my mind began to wander off to other things, I noticed two women turning the corner. One had dreadlocks that had begun to turn white, and wore a blue dress. The other wore bright red lipstick, which contrasted greatly with her dark skin. They were smiling as they came closer to the group, but their expressions soon changed. “Men on that side, women on this side.” one said. The other scanned one of the girls in our group. “Spit out your gum,” she said.
Nothing seemed to be wrong, but I couldn’t help but feel a bit uneasy after the way they were looking at us. The woman in the blue dress then shocked the whole group, when she yelled “All of you n----s turn around and face the wall right now.” The other began to chuckle hysterically, and asked “Where did you find this bunch of sloppy n----s?” I don’t know if it was out of shock or not, but something struck my funny spirits, causing me to burst into uncontrollable laughter. Trevionte nudged me, the contact alone yelling “Shut up!” but by the time I covered my mouth, they were after me like cobras.
“Oh you think this is funny, n---a?” She growled at me. “Do you think your history is funny? Or are you just a funny boy? We have a name for n----s like you. We’ll call you Sambo. He liked to make the white men laugh. He was a funny boy.” I looked up at her, and she returned a cold stare. “Don’t you ever look at me in my eyes again! You n----s are not equal to us! You are not worthy.”
We continued our journey through this museum, learning more about the experience of being taken from Africa, riding on a slave ship, and the slave trade. It was hard to believe that a person could be called n---a so many times without snapping. In fact, at some points, the only thing that held me back from throwing a few punches myself was the fact that these two were women. I couldn’t quite understand how a word that I hear so commonly back home could be so harmful now, just because they were using it differently.
After the reenactment was complete, we sat in a circle of foldable chairs and discussed what we had just gone through. One of the women said, “This word is degrading. 'N---a' was used against us for years, and hurt us for so long. And even now, when people use it, it still carries the weight that it did hundreds of years ago.” At the time I didn’t really process what she had just said, but when I had a chance to think about it, she was right. Just because you change a letter, or change the way you use it, doesn’t mean you change the story behind it. The N-Word, commonly used in our music, movies, and schools, is more than just a word.
Walking A Mile (or ten) in someone else’s shoes
I awoke early Sunday morning to the sound of Mr. Winn banging on our door. “You guys need to wake up,” he yelled, seemingly trying to keep his cool. “We’re going to be late for church.” Trevionte and I prepared for church, more sluggishly than what Mr. Winn would have liked. I wasn’t too excited to go to church, partly because I’m not the biggest fan of sitting around for extended periods of time. Little did I know, I was about to experience something I would never forget.
As the pastor gave his benediction, Mr. Winn hurried us out of the church, and into the car. The group was noticeably fatigued, and we all needed a couple more hours of sleep. And in the car, I struggled to keep my eyes open. That was until we turned the corner to a residential neighborhood packed with people, most of them tourists like us. Eager to find out what the fuss was about, I rushed out of the car, immediately noticing that the church down the street was where they were headed. As the rest of the group spilled out of the other car, we rushed over to the church, holding our signs that Mr. Winn ever so carefully crafted.
I noticed an interesting looking man standing near the microphone. He was a tall, average-looking man, and he wore a gray suit with New Balance walking shoes. But there was something about his face that was familiar. All of my questions were silenced when the man that was speaking said “And now, Reverend Jesse Jackson,” followed by a loud applause from the crowd.
After his speech was finished, he walked down from the podium and prepared to begin the march. We walked from the church to the other side of the bridge, packed like sardines with a crowd of hundreds of people. A man from the front hollered chants, and the crowd hollered back. And once we arrived at the bridge, we were met by a crowd of thousands of supporters, who sang, “We shall overcome” and held up signs. I was a part of a historic moment in the history of Selma, the same city that Dr. Martin Luther King started his historic march to the capital in. I even picked up a rock, because for all I know, Dr. King himself could have stepped on that rock once upon a time.
At the end of the bridge, the various groups of people dispersed; some went back across the bridge, others stuck around with hopes of taking a picture with Jesse Jackson, or any of the other activists and famous people that were present. Maya and I stayed near Jackson’s entourage, hoping to get some pictures of our own. He was about to conduct an interview for the local news station, when one of his bodyguards asked me where I was from. After I responded, he grabbed me by my arm, and told me I would get to be on TV. I asked Maya to take a picture, and after she did I returned the favor. I quickly sent my mother a text message, notifying her of this accomplishment.
Final Thoughts
As I peered out the window of the airplane, catching a last glimpse of the city that I had grown a bit attached to, my mind began to recall the last few days. Not only did I get to enjoy spending time in a interesting area, and talk to lovely people, I got to take a trip back in time, and learn about the people and events that made it possible for me, a young black man, to walk ten miles on a highway in Alabama. They say you can’t understand a man until you walk a mile in their shoes. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. marched in his oxford shoes, with his dress shirt and tie, with hundreds of people from Selma to Montgomery, overcoming police brutality, a lack of support, and a large racial barrier some two hundred years old to fight for freedom. I walked just ten of those miles, in Air Jordans and American Eagle, in a group of nine. Though the actions and the purpose weren't the same, the image was clear. As the clouds began to block my view of the city, I was left with the image of the capital building, where the group and I had taken a picture on the steps. I was leaving the city, yes, but the experience will never leave me. |
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Written by Maddi Hanlon-Austin
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Monday, 05 April 2010 |
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Vice Principal Brian Chatard
has been spotted climbing trees again,
continuously adding to his vast collection of
stoner-related trinkets. Many have seen the
wooden sign on display in Chatard’s office,
the one he pulled out of a tree in Grant Park
in which stoners have been known to light
up.
“I took it down because it had a
message for me on it,” Chatard stated when
asked about the infamous event. The sign
reads, “As I sit here smoken [sic] bowls I can’t
help but think waer [sic] is s--tard [sic] right
now.”
Chatard’s latest tree find, however,
is a little more valuable. “I found a stoner
someone left in the tree,” Chatard said,
“It looked like he’d been up there for quite
some time…maybe a week.” An anonymous
source from the Student Services office
said the stoner had been rained on and left
alone in the tree without food, water, or a
coat. “He was wearing a wet hoodie.” The
source went on to say that Chatard is “just
beside himself ” over his most recent find.
“I’ve been looking to get my hands
on one of these guys for quite some time
now,” Chatard said, “It was lucky I found him
when I did. Who knows how long he would
have been up there otherwise.”
The stoner is reportedly adjusting
nicely to life in Chatard’s office and seems
content with his current condition. “Mainly
he just sits up on that shelf or under my desk.
For the first week we had to split my lunches,
but after a while my wife caught on and she
now packs me two,” Chatard beams.
While Chatard continues to gloat
over his treasure, Kate Massey, who works in
the Student Store, explains that stoners are
actually turned in to the lost and found fairly
often. “They usually just sit in here with the
abandoned coats and keys until they sober up
and remember who they are and where they
are supposed to be.”
Speculation has been mounting over
the identity of the stoner now in Chatard’s
possession. “No one’s reported a lost stoner
in a while,” Massey added, “but that’s because
his friends were probably too stoned to even
notice he was missing.”
“Keeping a stoner is a big
responsibility,” Chatard said, when asked if
he’d return the stoner if properly identified.
“Just keeping the fridge stocked is a huge
challenge, because this kid has a perpetual
case of the munchies.”
The stoner, when asked for his
position on the matter, said with a glazedover
look, “Chatard’s got the hookup with the
snacks, bro. Word.” |
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Written by Desmond Jones
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Wednesday, 10 March 2010 |
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Much has changed at Grant since 1956.
Teachers that once wrote lectures on chalkboards have
been replaced by teachers that use white boards and
power points. Leather jackets and poodle skirts that
were once a fashionable have been traded in for skinny
jeans and LRG. Saddle shoes and ballet slippers have
evolved into Air Jordans and Chuck Taylors.
1956 also marked the year that Grant won
their last of seven consecutive state titles in swimming.
Now, 54 years later, Grant has brought the glory back
home, after winning the closest state meet of the decade.
Grant won with a final score of 104 points, with secondplace
winner Newberg only four points behind.
Grant entered the state meet as an underdog
after placing second in the PIL district meet, sending
only five athletes to state. “It was a big surprise, because
we were such a small team,” recalls senior Robert Macy.
“After an amazing performance in the
preliminary round last Friday Night, the men’s team was
positioned to easily come in third place,” coach Laura
Tyrell said in an email to team members: “A first place
finish was a long shot.”
The first race of Saturday’s action was the
200-meter medley relay, where the Generals placed
second to Roseburg. At the state championships for
swimming, the coaches of the winning teams present
the awards to the top six relay finishers. Everyone stood
up, surprised, when the Grant coaches were called up
to present. As it turns out, the third-leg swimmer on
Roseburg’s relay team started too soon, leading to a
disqualification and Grant receiving first place. After
freshman Max Bley-Male finished third in the 200
intermediate, along with fourth and sixth place finishes
by sophomores Will Tyrell and Henry Fellows in the
backstroke, the Generals held a small lead over Newberg
for first place.
“Intense,” is the word Bley-Male used to
describe the last few races leading up to the 400-meter
free relay. “There was a lot on our minds. We knew
fourth-place or better [in the last race] would win.”
The Generals also had to avoid fifth place, which would
cause a tie, or sixth place, which would give Newberg
the title.
After the first two legs, the Generals had fallen
to sixth place. As the pressure mounted in the last half of
the race, Tyrell was able to fight back into fourth place.
When Fellows dove into the water, a state championship
was only 100 meters away. “That was the fastest 100
of my life!” Fellows exclaimed. The team erupted into
celebration after Fellows touched the wall in fourth
place, and thus sealed the General’s place in history.
With the 2010 championship in the bag, a
bright future lays ahead for the Generals; only two of
the five state qualifiers this year were seniors. Fellows
and Tyrell are sophomores, and Bley-Male is a freshman
this year.
“This is just the beginning of what we can
do,” says Bley-Male. The Generals hope to return to
the status of the team that dominated the 1950’s. “I
definitely want to three-peat before my senior year is
over,” says Fellows. “This is the dawn of a new day for
us.” |
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Written by by Maddi Hanlon-Austin and Maya Allen
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Tuesday, 26 January 2010 |
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It is passing period, and for the next five minutes
the halls will overflow with students rushing to their classes.
Books jostle out of lockers, and greetings are shouted over
the throng of bodies pushing along. In center hall, Grant
Principal Joseph Malone surveys the crowd, while beside
him, Kim Patterson and Charles Hunter engage with
a few students who stop to ask questions. As the clamor
dies down, Malone continues to walk the halls, calling out
to the stragglers, encouraging them to hurry on to class.
When the final bell rings, Malone heads back to the office,
a smile on his face.
This familiar scene from the halls of Grant
High School will vanish next year, when Grant loses one
of its most valuable staff members. Malone, principal for
the past year and a half, has announced his upcoming
retirement.
“I’ve been doing this for 34 years and I love it,”
says Malone, who has spent 20 of those 34 years as an educator in
Portland. “I don’t want to get into a situation where I don’t love it, so I
think this is the right time to se
rve my society in a different type of way
than what I am doing now.”
For Malone, a Tennessee native, the role of an educator
“comes naturally” in more ways than one. His father, Professor John
Malone, was involved in education as well and was the principal at
the high school attended by Malone and his 10 brothers and sisters. “I
respected him to the utmost,” Malone says about his relationship with
his father. “He was respected in the community, in the schools and in
the church. He was respected for all the work he did.”
But Professor Malone was as strict as he was respected;
his son recalls that his high school never had a dance. The students,
however, were determined to have a prom. As junior class president,
young Malone presided over the class council meetings, and during
one meeting his father, the principal, chose to sit in and listen to their
plea for a dance. Even though Malone’s father had instilled in him
a strong sense of obedience through a strict religious upbringing,
Malone decided that day to take a stand against his father for the
first time and fight for what he and his classmates wanted. Even so,
Professor Malone decided against having a prom, and the issue was
never brought into conversation again.
Times were different when Malone was growing up. “I
experienced [segregation]. White and black fountains, sitting in the
back of the bus, and having to go up to the window to place an order
at Sonic,” Malone recalls. “But that never stopped me from having
white friends. My parents instilled in me and my siblings to have
people accept you for what you are, not the color that you are.”
In his brief time at Grant, Malone has remained a
prominent member in student body activities. From sporting events
to Constitution team debates, he has seen it all, “It gives me chills. I’m
not just looking at the event, but what students are getting out of the
event and what this will mean in their future.”
The students and staff of Grant will miss the energetic
presence that Malone brought to the school during his time here.
Kim Patterson smiles sadly as she expresses her opinions on Malone’s
retirement, “He has let himself enjoy going to events; kids couldn’t
ask for a better cheerleader. I will miss his genuine appreciation and
enthusiasm for the achievements at Grant. He makes my day happy.”
With such a long history in Portland Public Schools
and an even longer history in teaching, Malone has a colorful array
of anecdotes about students, past and present. In the words of his
personal secretary, Angie Payne, “He’s funnier than heck!”
Payne goes on to say that while she’s not happy about
his departure, he will leave plenty of good memories. One such
story representing his quirkiness in the office is that of the infamous
cracker incident, when Payne switched Malone’s favorite garlicky
crackers with plain ones. Malone proceeded to spend five minutes
reprimanding Payne about his strict cracker preferences. It is clear that
a lot of laughter has taken place
in the office during Malone’s
occupancy.
Malone is well-liked
for his youthful energy and
sense of humor. Students have
grown accustomed to Malone’s
upbeat demeanor in the halls
during passing periods, as well as
his willingness to be available to
students whenever he is needed.
Security guard Charles Hunter also expresses regret for
Malone’s retirement. “I’m happy for him but sad for the building and
us.”
Hunter explains that Malone’s retirement will affect the
entire Grant environment.
“The changing of a guard changes everything about the
building,” Hunter continues, “He took the job to help us out, he had
been planning on retiring before, but expanded his time as a principal
just to help us out.”
Grant staff members are not the only ones expressing
sadness about Malone’s retirement; the principal has also left his mark
within other Portland Public High Schools. Jefferson Vice Principal
Margaret Calvert got a chance to work with Malone during the
beginning of his Portland teaching career at Ockley Green Middle
School. Calvert, like many others, will remember Malone’s genuine
attitude, great enthusiasm and support towards kids.
“Although he’s not from Portland, he came here and
made Portland a place in his heart, near and dear to him. As an
administrator, that’s a strong strength to have. [His retirement] will be
a great loss.”
Marshall Haskins, vice principal of Wilson High School,
also expresses opinions towards Malone’s upcoming retirement,
“It’s bittersweet. When you work in education for a long time you
gain generations. But on the other side, he’s way more
deserving of this. He’s got 30 trenches in his field, so I
think he deserves to spend time with his family and loved
ones like retired administrators do.”
The principal’s wife, Lois Malone, expresses
mixed feelings about her husband’s retirement. One
reason Malone is ready to retire is so that he can join his
wife. “Joseph could keep doing this forever,” Lois Malone
comments. Laughing when asked about Malone at
home she responds, “What day of the week? Usually
during the school year he’s always out, so when he gets
home he just wants to eat. He’s pretty quiet, he likes to veg
out and watch TV.” Lois Malone, now retired, also has a
long history in education. Besides teaching in Tennessee,
she taught sixth grade at Gregory Heights Middle School
for 27 years, Occasionally, she still returns to Gregory
Heights as a substitute.
In their spare time together, the Malones
travel to the beach, go out to eat and socialize with friends,
“All our friends are teachers too, so we could talk about it
for hours on end,” Lois says. Though it is evident that both
the Malones are passionate about teaching, Lois Malone is
ready for her husband to retire. “Before he started at Grant, he was
supposed to retire but he agreed to give it a try and he’s loved it,” she
says. But family matters are beginning to pull the Malones back to
Tennessee. Principal Malone will possibly take over a family friend’s
funeral business, and his wife is eager to move closer to her parents.
Yet one thing holds them back.
“Our daughter Allison just got engaged on Christmas
Day,” Lois Malone says.
“She thinks she’s
getting married, I told her I
would take her down to the
courthouse,” laughs Joseph
Malone, with raised eyebrows.
Malone’s tenure at
Grant, though short, has
affected students and faculty
alike, “PPS has been good to
me, and I have something to
give back. Grant has a way of
pulling people in. Just the way people say Grant, the way they sound
it out, gives it a different sound.”
Upon parting, Mr. Malone wishes that he could have had
a bigger impact on students who are not being as successful as they
could be or taking pride in their schoolwork. “I see the lackadaisical
attitudes and my mind goes, three or four years later, what do they
expect to happen?’ That’s what bothers me,”Malone says, towards his
concerns for students.
Although Malone expresses concern over that issue, what
he’s brought to Grant in the past year and a half has been exceptional.
He’s worked hard in maintaining a sense of equality at Grant, “The
only thing I can bring to the table is what I’ve experienced. We’ve got
to talk about it; not only one person has the answer.”
It is evident that Grant will be a different place without
Malone walking the halls and happily partaking in multiple Grant
student activities. But we don’t have to worry quite yet. The end of
the school year is months away, and Malone isn’t planning on leaving
Grant completely in the past.
“I could do something like this again,” Mr. Malone says
with a mischievous smile, “There’s even a possibility of doing some
similar things. As long as I can go out and serve my community.” |
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Written by Rosa Inocencio Smith
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Monday, 04 January 2010 |
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Note: The Grantonian began writing and reporting this article with full permission to print the subject’s name. However, after discussing the matter with his family, he asked that his name be withheld shortly before the story went to press.
This story could begin in any number of places. But the telling of it starts 12 years ago, with the day a 6-year-old boy went snowboarding for the first time and broke his toe. His mother, a skier like the rest of the family, worried that after hurting himself, her son would never try snowboarding again. But she underestimated him. As soon as the broken toe healed, he went back to the mountain, pursuing what was to become one of his favorite activities: one that he now describes as “a natural high.”
That first day snowboarding is now the boy’s favorite memory, and there’s a lot that the story could say about him. It could say he’s tenacious, courageous, persevering. Or it could say that he’s willing to take risks. It could show how much he’s determined not to let an element of danger keep him from something he enjoys. He’s 18 now and a senior at Grant. Sober, he seems like a friendly, likable guy, described by the people who know him as “nice,” “funny,” and “easy to talk to.” He has a relaxed way of speaking and a way of downplaying his own problems that makes everything seem easy to fix—everything, that is, except for his drinking. Over the past two years, in spite of concern from his family and friends, warnings from police, and meetings with Alcoholics Anonymous, he has seen alcohol become more and more a part of his life. Now, he faces the challenging question of how to control it.
He was born in Portland in 1991, adopted at birth and brought up in the Grant neighborhood, in a house close by the school where he has lived all his life. He remembers spending most of his time with his mom as a child; his father, he says, was often busy at work. Things changed in his sophomore year, the year he was 16. That was the year he got drunk for the first time, at a party the day before Halloween. It was the year his adoptive father, worried (says the son) that the boy was going to be a failure, began trying to redirect his son’s life. But the stricter his father’s rules, the more the boy rebelled. Near the end of his sophomore year, he and a few of his friends were arrested for the vandalism of Grant High School and 52 cars. It’s his worst memory—the first time he was arrested, the only time he faced the possibility of a sentence. The first time he saw his mother cry.
Before he started getting in trouble, the boy thought he could open his own snowboard business someday. He could study business in college and turn one of his favorite pastimes into a lifelong career. Now, he says, he can’t do that anymore—at least, not the way he wanted to, and not the way he planned. His grades, which have suffered ever since he started drinking, will limit his opportunity to get into a four-year college. His first arrest, which could have been expunged on his 18th birthday if not for his alcohol-related police contact, will stay on his record for another five years. He was upset when he first learned about this, but now he’s accepted it and says he doesn’t really care. When asked what he wants to be “when he grows up,” he raises an eyebrow and answers, “I just don’t want to be in jail. Or dead.” After a moment he adds, as a kind of explanation, “I don’t really have any dreams anymore.”
He says this offhandedly, and a little apologetically, as if his listeners are the ones who might be hurt by it.
*
In the beginning, the boy didn’t think his drinking was a big deal. He figured drugs and alcohol were a normal part of high school, just something to do while hanging out with friends. Even now, the first reason he can think of for his drinking is that “drinking is fun.” “I don’t know,” he says. “You always have a good time. Everyone’s happy, there’s no drama—you don’t have to worry about anything.”
It’s a vision that contrasts markedly with some of the other scenes he describes. He can remember three occasions when he became so drunk that he passed out or stopped breathing. Once, his dad came home and found the boy lying in the street; after bringing him inside, he had to keep waking him up so he could breathe. The boy is startlingly nonchalant about his experiences; he shrugs, for example, over the memory of a night when, with vomit clogging his nose and mouth, he passed out while at a party with his friends. They carried him outside, laid him, unconscious, in the back of a truck, and went back to the party. “They got me somewhere safe,” he says now. “I didn’t want to ruin their night.”
Over the summer before his senior year, even as he started to attend AA meetings, the boy’s drinking got to the point where he expected to get drunk every weekend. In addition, he started doing drugs—“to feel better about myself,” he says. He spent all his money, lost his parents’ trust, gave himself a police record with several trips to the detox room. On August 6, two days after his 18th birthday, he was arrested for drunkenness and held in detox for five and a half hours, “listen[ing] to the bums tell their stories.” It was five o’clock in the morning by the time he was allowed to walk home. He’d had 14 shots of Everclear, a brand of liquor so strong that at 95 percent alcohol, it can’t be distilled any further. “People just kept handing me drinks,” he explains with a shrug and a shake of his head. “And I just kept drinking them.”
*
To Breanna Wise, the only one of the boy’s friends who ever tells him not to drink, this kind of behavior is alcoholism. “When he’s just hanging out with his friends, he just drinks,” she explains. “He feels he has to drink, and he doesn’t know when he’s had too much.”
Wise has five uncles who have died as a result of substance abuse, and helping her friend stop drinking is very important to her. Knowing the outcomes of alcoholism, she says it’s hard to see him going through what her uncles did. It worries her. It scares her to see him acting unpredictable and unable to control himself. She tells a story of one night when the boy got drunk, when she had to “sit there and make sure he didn’t, like, jump out of the car.” Bluntly, she states the severity of his situation: “If someone wasn’t there to help him and watch him, he’d probably die.”
“She thinks I’m ruining my life,” the boy says of Wise. He, on the other hand, thinks she’s sure to be successful in life, and he admits that her advice about his drinking is probably right. She’s helped him with it in the past. Sitting near her at the computers during their shared sixth-period study hall, he swears he didn’t drink during the time last May when the two of them were a couple. “She wouldn’t let me,” he says, and then he offers another explanation. “At that point I didn’t really need anything else to make me happy.”
That happiness ended, however, with a story the boy lists along with his police record as one of the things he regrets: One night, he went out with Wise, got drunk, and started messing around with another girl. After that, he and Wise broke up.
That summer, the boy started drinking more than ever.
*
It’s hard to tell how the boy really feels about his drinking. With all the contradictory statements he makes, it sounds sometimes like even he doesn’t really know. He recognizes that his drinking is a problem, but seems in no hurry to stop. He worries about friends passing out and getting into drugs, but doesn’t extend the concern to himself, or respect the concern of the friends who try to help him. More than once he’s made promises—to Wise, or to his teacher that he won’t drink over a particular weekend. More than once, he has broken his promise.
For four months now, he’s been going to group meetings sponsored by Alcoholics Anonymous, which he describes as “fun…just a bunch of kids with the same situation.” But he doesn’t think the meetings, which his parole officer recommended and his dad made him attend under threat of being sent to live in California, are helping him much. For one thing, unless he’s going to be given a drug test, he lies when they ask him how long he’s been sober—it’s what everyone told him to do on his first day. Besides, “All it did was get me more friends that help me do the things I do.” Though he has made some friends who he knows are clean—friends he can call up any time he doesn’t feel like drinking—he hasn’t hung out with any of them in a while. The other friends he’s made are people to go out drinking with. It’s as if getting help has made the problem worse.
He doesn’t say for sure whether he wants the AA meetings to help him, but he thinks they probably should—as long as he’s going there, they should be doing something. It isn’t hard to imagine how the meeting leaders might counter: if AA isn’t curing this young man, it’s because he isn’t trying to cure himself.
Still, the situation is more complicated than that. Drinking remains a big part of the boy’s social life, and he feels that “if I stop, I won’t have any friends, ’cause that’s what they’ll do.” If he didn’t drink, he says he’d have to hang around his house all the time; meanwhile, there seem to be drugs and alcohol everywhere he goes. Last Halloween, having promised to stay sober, he went to a party where there wasn’t going to be any alcohol. But there was, and he drank it. The next weekend, he found himself at another party with people doing speed in the back room. He told his friends to leave, because hard drugs would ruin the fun, but at the next party they went to, there were people doing cocaine. He finally ended up at a third party, playing “beer pong” with cups of beer lined up on a ping-pong table.
*
The boy claims he never feels any physical effects from not having alcohol. He insists he doesn’t need it—and maybe he doesn’t. Instead, what he seems to need more than anything is connection—the connection he has with the people around him, the connection he feels whenever he drinks. It’s a way of having fun with the people he knows. It’s a history he shares with his “tight and funny” birth dad, who the boy says used to be just like him in high school, and who he now says he wants to be like when he’s older. Even more, it’s a way of trying to forget about the people and things that he’s lost: friends who have gone out of his life or given up on him, and football, which is out of the question after a knee injury sustained in an accident while he was drunk. Now, he says, he often drinks “just to make myself feel better.” He’s never tried any other way.
Even being told not to drink can prove that people care about him—like the girl, who says that “a lot of his friends have just given up on him. I don’t want to be just like everyone else.”
“I just want someone to show me that they’re there for me,” the boy says.
And although he reproaches the girl for not talking to him or texting him, she says that the fact that he does have someone “there for him” is exactly what she wants him to remember. She says people need support to stop drinking, and she promises that he has hers. She thinks he’s beginning to think about his actions more. He might be on his way to getting his life back under control.
Meanwhile, the boy says he wants to stop drinking. But he also says he can stop whenever he wants to, and he hasn’t done it yet. He still has to choose his loyalties and the risks he’ll be willing to take. If he lets his drinking go further, he risks his grades, his reputation, his future, even his life. If he stops, he risks losing his friends—and though some might say they don’t sound like much to lose, they represent the only life he knows.
So go back 12 years to the boy’s favorite memory. Go back to the day he decided, at 6, that the fear of another broken bone couldn’t stop him. What kind of pain is he willing to risk now? What, today, is he willing to be brave about?
“If I’m with my friends and they’re [drinking],” he says, “I’m not going to say no.”
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