A couple of weeks ago, parents were invited to an Open House at the juvenile detention center where Ethan has been for the past year. We were told that we'd be able to meet his teachers, and to see where, and how he lived. In the nearly year since he's been there, we've never been allowed beyond the visitation/counseling rooms. It has taken these last couple of weeks to really process the experience --- it was a very powerful one!
I'll begin with meeting the teachers, and seeing some of the work Ethan has been doing. That, was a wonderful thing!! Each of his teachers praised him for his work, and more importantly, for his growth. His science teacher said, "Ethan came here a year ago as a little boy, but he'll be leaving as a really nice young man!" He beamed with pride as he heard each of his teachers saying similar things about him to me. He took care to show me some of the work he'd been doing, like the marble roller coaster for physics, and explain how he researched history topics, etc. Having the small group environment with a teacher has made a remarkable difference in his confidence because he's been able to have more direct attention when needed. Aside from the first six weeks or so of the year, he has worked diligently to make all A's and B's. He's met his goal, and I can see the satisfaction in his eyes. That was a reward for me!! He GETS the value of an education in a way that he didn't before, and takes self-satisfaction in what he's doing. Huge leap!! He really wants to graduate from high school now, and I believe he will. So, the school part of the Open House was wonderful!
The difficult part was actually sitting in his cell, and realizing where my once happy, smiling little boy has spent the past year. The cell is 10 x 8. It is entirely made of cement block. As a Senior II level, Ethan is now in the "senior" cell, which means it's really the handicap accessible cell. The good thing about that is that it's slightly bigger, the toilet and sink are not connected in one piece, and he has a "mirror" (similar to a cookie sheet bolted to the wall.) He said that the first time he sat on the separate toilet, and realized he could actually turn in two directions, he thought he was something special. He also commented that it was psychologically easier to drink the water out of the sink since it wasn't directly connected to the toilet. The little joys of life! So, that was the exciting part. Directly ahead, after entering the heavy steel door with the small window, is his bed. The bed is simply a raised section of cement block that spans the width of the cell. In the center of it is a "mattress," which is maybe an inch and a half thick, and an unbelievably flat pillow. He had decorated his bed with his "senior blanket" to make it look nice for me. I think I've mentioned it before, but in the program, they teach the boys how to crochet. It's a good skill to keep the hands and mind busy, and they deliver them to nursing homes. However, he gets to keep his senior blanket with him in his cell now that he's a Senior II. The blanket is orange, gray, white, and purple, and the only speck of color in the room. At the foot of the bed is a small area where his one change of clothes is folded and rolled, and neatly placed. At the head of the bed is a raised cement block which serves as a bookshelf.
I walked in, sat on his "bed", and looked around the cell as the door closed all but a crack. I just sat there, trying not to act like what I was feeling inside. I wanted to stay positive for Ethan, but what I was feeling inside was immense sadness. It was slowly sinking in that this was where my once sweet, happy little baby had been for the past YEAR!! For a year, he has not slept on a real bed. For a year, he has not been able to go to the bathroom in privacy. For a year, he has not been able to shower alone. For a year, he has been fully regimented, 24 hours a day. For a year, he has been looking at cement block everything. For a year, he has not been out at night, so hasn't seen the stars.
Then, I began to think . . . for a year, he has stayed alive. For a year, he has been safe. For a year, he has been getting help. For a year, I have been able to sleep better at night because I wasn't wondering where he was, or what might happen. The sadness I felt didn't leave, but it became counterbalanced with pride. I began to think how terrifying it must have been for him early on. I thought about how he has pulled himself through, sometimes kicking and screaming, but pulling through nonetheless. He has fought the system, fought himself, and fought everyone involved, but some part of him has always known that this was necessary, and that he wouldn't give up on himself, and we wouldn't either. I was incredibly proud of his strength, braveness, and progress. I was proud of him!!!
