Tiffany Jacques, fifteen
[EDITORS’ NOTE: To get help with child abuse issues of any kind, call Childhelp USA at 800-4-A-CHILD.]
For the Best
It is not only for what we do that we are held responsible, but also for what we do not do.
Moliere
It was two days after the tragic school shooting in Colorado, and I was feeling bad about what had happened to the students there. My school began having a lot of bomb threats and it seemed that police cars were there often. I was standing with my friend, Amberly, and her boyfriend when he casually said, “I’m gonna blow up the school and kill everyone.” I asked, “Why would you want to do that?” and he said, “I just do,” and walked away.
I was scared because no one had ever said anything like that to me before. I found out when talking to other friends that he also bragged about this to other people. My friends told me that I should tell an adult what he had said, but I was too scared and I made them promise not to tell anyone either.
One day, Amberly and I were talking about what he had said when the teacher overheard our conversation. She took me out into the hallway and made me tell her who had said it and what they had said. At first, I refused to say a word. She told me it really was for the best, so I told her. I felt awful for doing it. I was angry with her for making me tell who said it. I wasn’t sure he really meant it and didn’t want him to get into trouble.
He got suspended for two days and had two days of in-school detention after that. I sometimes wonder if I had not told, would he have done what he said he was going to do? The guys in Colorado seemed pretty normal to a lot of people. The bottom line is, you should never joke around about something as serious as killing people. If you do, responsible people have no choice but to have you checked out to ensure everyone else’s safety.
After he was suspended, the whole sixth grade had an assembly. The principal and counselors told the students that there was a kid who was making threats and that he was suspended. I decided later to tell him that it was me who told on him so he wouldn’t speculate about who did it. I was surprised to find that he was not angry with me for doing what I did. He was able to get help for his feelings and behavior.
Many people are in the same situation that I was in. If your friend is saying threatening stuff like my friend was, then they obviously need help—soon. It seems like when one school shooting happens, then another one occurs not too long after that. If there were any way that you could prevent one school shooting it could perhaps save your own life and many others as well. If I had to do it over again, I would—because it really was for the best.
April Townsend, twelve
[EDITORS’ NOTE: If you are aware of dangerous or illegal activity that has happened or is going to happen at your school, tell this information to a trusted adult, or in case of an emergency, call 911. If you would like information on starting a student-led safe school initiative (S.A.V.E. chapter) contact the Center for the Prevention of School Violence at www.ncsu.edu/cpsv/. If you would like to report your concerns about an act or potential act of violence, contact WAVE America [Working Against Violence Everywhere] at www.waveamerica.com. You do not have to give your name.]
A Smile Can Save a Life
The day that changed my life forever started out like any other day for me. I have been a professional speaker for the last four years, since I was eighteen. I travel around the country speaking to middle and high school students about self-esteem, goal setting and helping others. On that day in 1999, I was speaking to a group of students near Fort Worth, Texas. The auditorium was full of applause, hugs and smiles. Such a love-filled morning did not prepare me for the tragedy about to unfold.
After my speech that day, I went back to my hotel room. It was then that I received the emotional phone call that I will never forget.
“There was a tragedy at a youth event, right near where you spoke. Most of the victims were kids. I don’t know what their conditions are.”
For once, I was speechless. I was also afraid. Were any of the kids I spoke to today involved? I wondered. Even though I didn’t really know them, I felt a strong connection with the young people who had been in my audience only hours before.
I immediately hung up the phone and turned on the radio to find out more. A middle-aged man had walked into a youth rally at a local church and started shooting. In only minutes, he had ended the lives of several preteens from the church’s youth group.
I bought a map, and drove the few miles to the scene. When I got there, it was a horrible scene. Helicopters were circling overhead, and parents were screaming and calling the names of their children. Everyone was crying. I didn’t know how to help, or what to do. Then I noticed a group of young people sitting on the street corner and I walked up to them.
To this day, I don’t remember exactly what I said. I do remember that we hugged one another and did our best to comfort each other while the crying and screaming was going on all around us. I will never, for the rest of my life, forget sitting on that street corner with those kids—feeling their pain and confusion—and crying with them.
I knew from that moment on, that my life work would be about preventing youth violence.
I began asking questions during my speeches and listening to the students, tens of thousands of them from all over the country. I learned from them what they thought causes violence and especially what they thought could prevent it. Having the students sharing their opinions, and working with them to shape their schools has become a moving experience for me.
I will never forget the eighth-grade girl, Jenny, who told me she was more afraid of sitting alone at lunch than being physically hurt, and that no one ever smiled at her. Or looking into the teary eyes of Stephen, who had sat next to another boy for an entire year—a boy who later shattered his school and many lives. He hung his head as he told me, “I never once said hello to him. I never once asked him how his day was. I never once acknowledged him.” I started to realize that these kinds of behaviors are the seeds that can later create violence. My belief was confirmed when I got word about the man who had shot the kids at the event in Fort Worth. He had opened fire on those kids just to get attention, and because he had felt that this was a way to get back at people who had ignored him.
The most important thing that I have learned is that young people are amazing. I am always so frustrated that the media often depicts teenagers as lazy, unintelligent and violent. They rarely discuss the millions who work hard to get through school, hold steady jobs, support their families and stay clear of trouble. They overcome all kinds of obstacles, limitations and fears every day, in order to move forward with their lives. Such as Maria, the blind girl, who is a star on her school’s track team, or John, the school bully, who turned his life around to become one of my best volunteers. Thousands of students put forth an effort every day to help others, and they never even expect to be acknowledged.
Together we can work to respect all different types of people. We can learn what behaviors can hurt and what behaviors can help. Ignoring others or calling them names can create an atmosphere that fosters violence. And, something as simple as a smile can truly save a life.
Young people do have the potential to make their own schools and communities safer. Most of all, we can sincerely value ourselves and others for who they are. Together, we can connect and end the hurt.
Jason R. Dorsey
[EDITORS’ NOTE: With the help of mentors and young people across the country, Jason founded the nonprofit Institute to End School Violence, whose goal is to take student solutions for preventing violence and use them to build stronger school communities. Learn more at www.endschoolviolence.com.]
My One Regret
Don’t ever slam a door. You may want to go back.
Don Herold
Even though my mom and dad still loved each other, my dad’s lifestyle came between them and us. Dad always picked his friends over his family. He owned a bar, rode a Har
ley, and had other hobbies that I do not feel too comfortable talking about.
My mother and father had been divorced for five years when I went to live with my dad. My mom and I were not getting along. As it turned out, I spent most of my time with my twenty-six-year-old brother. My brother took me to school, picked me up and dropped me off at Dad’s house because my dad was still the same and spent all of his time either at work or with his friends.
Pretty soon, I started to miss my mom, so I wanted to move back to live at her house. My dad was really upset with me for wanting to leave, even though I hardly ever saw him. I went ahead and moved back in with my mom anyway. Three months went by without my dad and I speaking a word to each other. It didn’t really bother me too much, because my mom and I were getting along, and we had even moved into a new house. Then my whole life changed with just a single telephone call.
My ten-year-old sister and I were the only ones home when a woman called. She did not tell us what was going on, only that my mom should call when she came home.
When Mom returned a few hours later, she called and was told that my father had been in a motorcycle accident and that she needed to call the hospital. When she called the hospital they told her to contact my dad’s family. My mom became hysterical and started yelling that we were his family and that she was his ex-wife and she had his children with her. They still would not tell her anything, except to contact my brother.
I knew that we were too late. I started to cry, but then I stopped. I guess part of me just wanted to hold on to the small chance that maybe I was just overreacting. Deep down I knew that I was not, I just did not want to believe it.
All of us piled into the car and drove to my father’s house as quickly as possible. My brother was sitting outside on the picnic table with people all around. When I saw my brother sitting there, I panicked. Right then I knew that he did not have good news for us. My brother squeezed into the car and told us to drive. I can still remember the exact words my brother said—I don’t think that I will ever forget them. He said, “Kids, I hate to be the one to have to tell you this, but Dad is dead.”
The next few days are still a blur. Everybody tried to act strong. I would catch my older sister locked in the bathroom crying. My younger sister would write messages in her notebook about how she wished that she still had her daddy. I think that I suffered greater than they did. My father and I never had a chance to resolve our problems. I cannot remember the last time we told each other how much we loved each other. He was mad at me when I left his house, and I never had the chance to work things out with him.
The only thing that kept me from going insane was my mother. She told me about dreams that she has had about my father. He talked to her in her dreams. He told her that he is watching over us, and that he loves all of us very much. I want to believe that with all my heart.
I often think about how things could have been different if I had just picked up the phone during those three months and broken the silence between us. I guess I just thought he’d always be there.
The greatest advice that I can give anyone is to always forgive each other—don’t let your differences linger over time. You never know what the future will hold.
Angelia Lee Swift, seventeen
The Perfect Figure
I am as my Creator made me, and since He is satisfied, so am I.
Minnie Smith
“Oh my gosh, it looks sooo good on you,” exclaimed my best friend. “That color flatters you, and I’m getting it for you for your birthday. After all, it’s in two weeks!”
I had gone bathing-suit shopping with my best friend. Since we were going into the seventh grade we needed to look cooler. We tried two-piece suits in hopes that we would get more attention from the guys. We wound up purchasing them, and the topic of conversation came up about going on a diet. The only reason for going on one would be to lose a little bit of our “baby fat.” I thought all the guys would like me if I was pretty and thin.
So I decided to stick to the diet, even though it would be hard because I am a chocoholic. I had always been a big girl. Not necessarily fat, but tall with a solid build. All the courses in school I took were advanced placement and I played many sports. I thought, A thin, pretty, smart, athletic girl—everyone will love me. When I would come home I wouldn’t snack, and I cut down on my dinner portions. I had cravings for ice cream, but I just looked at beauty magazines and my bathing suit. The craving disintegrated quickly.
My mom noticed when I dropped five pounds. She told me to stop because I could hurt myself. I promised her I’d stop, but I couldn’t. My best friend lost about ten pounds and stopped because she knew she looked good. I started getting complimented by my peers at school. I wore my same clothes which kept getting baggier and baggier. Some people would ask me where my lunch was. I lied to them and made up excuses.
Since I lost weight by dropping lunch, I did the same with breakfast. I tricked my dad into thinking that I ate my bagels, but I fed them to the deer. My weight dropped drastically, and my best friend would threaten to tell my parents if I didn’t eat. I fooled her so she thought I was eating, but I wasn’t. When I looked at myself in the mirror every day, I saw bulgy thighs that had to go.
My gym teacher confronted me about my immense weight loss. I told her I was losing weight, but that it was all through exercise.
Finally, dark circles formed under my eyes, and I stopped physically developing. It was a struggle for me to even walk up my driveway. I couldn’t sleep at night, and I wore layers of clothing in eighty-degree weather but I was still cold. That didn’t matter. I still needed to be thinner, and I started wondering how many calories were in toothpaste and communion wafers.
About a month and a half after I had bought the bathing suit, I tried it on again and it fell right off me. My mom told me to look in the mirror. I could see my eye sockets, my transparent skin, the dark circles under my eyes, and my cheekbones popping out of my skin. That was the day I realized how skinny I was.
I went to our family doctor and a psychiatrist. My total weight loss was about twenty-five pounds in one month and a week. It took one year for my body to start working normally again.
Sometimes I want to go back to being thin, but I would never do what I did again. It’s not worth it. Please don’t go on diets when you’re young. You will regret them. I know I do. Get help right away because you’ll slowly kill yourself and suffer greatly. Don’t judge and compare yourself to others. Try to love yourself for who you are, not for how you look. Besides, you probably look fine just the way you are.
Nikki Yargar, fourteen
[EDITORS’ NOTE: For information regarding eating disorders, log on to the Eating Disorders Awareness and Prevention Web site at www.edap.org or for information and referrals call the hotline at 1-800-931-2237.]
Pale Dawn of a New Day
Recovery is a process, not an event.
Anne Wilson Schaef
I had always had a feeling of dread deep down within me. When it happened, it hit me with such surprise that you would never know that I predicted it.
At the time, I did not know how lucky I had been. I would lie awake at night before falling asleep, hearing my parents fight and yell at each other. Although neither hurt the other, it always ended up with my mother crying . . . and that always scared me. I suppose they never thought I could hear them, and they hid their tension from me as much as possible.
One afternoon, my mother told me she needed to talk to me. I never thought of the obvious. My mother sat down next to me on our gray couch with my father on the other side. My mother calmly explained that they no longer enjoyed each other’s company and that they would be getting a divorce. As I fought back tears, my mother continued to tell me how they had tried so hard to make it work—for me. They said they never wanted to hurt me. They could never know how much it did. They said that even though they no longer loved each other, it did not affect how much they loved me, and that my dad would move to an
apartment nearby, close enough for me to walk to.
I could no longer hold back the tears, and I ran sobbing to my room, slammed the door and collapsed on my bed. I clutched my pillow to my chest. Everything flashed through my head, everything I could have done to make it work. I lay there, never wanting to leave the safety of my room, not wanting to accept my new reality. I stared for hours out my second-story window, not really thinking . . . not really looking, just sitting out of the reach of my own mind.
I woke up the next morning and trudged to the bus stop. At school, my friends comforted me and I hated it. I was trapped, and everyone made it worse. My friends tried to make me feel better, but they always reminded me of how it had been before. I began to associate the pain of the situation with them and it hurt. I pushed them away, enjoying the solitude.
I found I loved writing, though I shared my compositions with no one. Everything had been turned upside down. No one knew. I only suffered internally. I hid inside myself, remaining the same person externally. My parents, in separate places, acted as though nothing had happened, and that outraged me even more.
My father did not move to an apartment nearby. Instead, he stayed in our house. It was my mother who left and moved to the other side of town.
I was informed my father had fallen in love with a new “companion.” It hurt immeasurably to watch my father preferring to hold her hand instead of mine. My mother had found one as well, and moved in with him. I would spend long hours at her house waiting to leave, feeling alone and ignored. I thought I would die.