Skip to main content

Life on the Streets: Part Two

This is part of an ongoing series of articles and columns I wrote for Canadian newspapers. I am grateful to Postmedia and the Ottawa Citizen for permission to reprint this article which ran on March 18, 2002.



By Rose Simpson

I felt a lump in my throat recently when I heard police had found a 13-year-old Renfrew teenager who had gone missing. The boy was found safe at the Young Men's Shelter of the Salvation Army in the Byward Market.
I thought about my own experience with a runaway teenager, an experience the rocked my world to its very foundation. And I wanted to share this story with you because it, too, has a happy ending, thanks to the people at the Salvation Army and the Youth Services Bureau.
My son and I had been battling for some time over his penchant for skipping school, his smoking, his friends and his attitude. As the cliche goes, you could cut the tension in my house with a knife.
And finally, it all came to a head one Sunday night when he arrived home three hours late-- repeating an endless pattern, part of what I perceived as an escalating downward spiral. I confronted him, he gave me a death stare, got on his coat and opened the door.
"You leave now, don't come back."
He looked at at me blankly, opened the patio door, and jumped the fence into the darkness of the wee hours of the morning.
Even as I uttered those words, I could scarcely believe they were coming out of my mouth. How could I do this to my child? I cried myself to sleep.
Maybe telling him to leave was the wrong thing to do. I don't know. But I also said something else, the words from the gut of my motherly instincts.
"Don't forget to call Jacques. He'll find you a place to stay."
Jacques was a counsellor at the Youth Services Bureau whom my son had been seeing for help. He had endless talks with the boy, tried to find him a job, gave him good fatherly advice. He had become a lifeline for a teenager with a permanent look of hopelessness emblazoned on his face. He was someone my son listened to.
The next day, I called Jacques, told him what had happened. He was worried, but reassuring, telling  me he would get in touch with me as soon as he heard anything -- which turned out to be a few hours later.
My son said he didn't want to come home; he was going to try to live on his own, maybe get welfare.
In the meantime, Jacques got him a room at the Sally Ann shelter. They made him lunches, they gave him bus fare, and a warm semi-private room with another lad. To my surprise, my son even started to attend classes again.
Still, there were no phone calls except from Jacques who gave me enough news-- while protecting my son's privacy -- to let me know he was safe.
Four days later, I received a call. My son said he felt unsafe, not at the shelter but in himself.
"Well, you can always come home. Think about it."
"I don't know."
"Take a few hours."
"Can I come home now?"
When I picked him up, he looked abut four years old, with his familiar black hood covering his head. A look of sheer and utter loneliness replaced the defiance; it was a look I will never forget. A look of haunting perhaps.
"How was it?" I asked.
"Not bad," he said, in between grateful bites of Subway. "If you don't mind old guys hitting on you."
A few comments followed about how bad the food was, how cold the place was, and so on. Light stuff. I took him home and he slept for two days.
I am not going to say that everything is perfect now, but it's better. I actually see a smile on his face a lot of the time, replacing the permanent scowl. He plays his music a little softer. He meets his curfews every time or he calls, and he's even joking about a favourite teacher.
As for me, I'm trying to stop yelling and start talking, to give him some space. To cut those apron strings that teenagers hate. Because the experience not only changed him, it changed me.
I realize now how much courage it took to walk out that door. I realize this runaway boy became a man overnight. He learned about a world he didn't like in a safe environment, the Salvation Army, and with the help of his friend and counsellor, Jacques.
If there is a lesson in this, it's that there are people to turn to before the situation gets completely out of hand. There are resources in our community.
We just have to pick up the phone.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Ashley Simpson: Don't Let Her Die in Vain

  Six years ago, I was combing through my Facebook and I saw post from my cousin Julie Major. Her brother and his wife were frantically looking for their daughter Ashley who just days before had Facetimed her mom saying she was planning to return to her home in Niagara. Ashley never made it home. She was murdered in cold blood in her home in Salmon Arm then buried in a nearby field. It would be five and a half years before her body was located, and her boyfriend was charged with second degree murder.  Today, Ashley's urn has a sacred spot in her parents' home, and Derek Favell is in jail awaiting trial by judge and jury. The trial is expected to go into next year sometime. This has been an agonizing journey for Ashley's friends and family. The pain has never stopped, and the wounds are broken open every time the family has to sit through a series of pre-trial proceedings. Fortunately, this ordeal will end but the pain will never wane for the people, including me, who have b...

Ashley Simpson: A Father Remembers

I have asked Ashley Simpson's family and friends to give us a glimpse into the life she lived before going missing nearly a month ago. Here is how her father John remembers his sweet girl. Ashley was a treat when she came into this world, a smashing 9lbs 8 ounces with a  head full of hair and nails that needed to be clipped. She has made many friends in her journey of life and continues to make them as we speak. She has made this world a better place by her love of mankind and this place we call Earth; unfortunately this life she has lived hasn't been the best for her. She has suffered through unbearable pain and suffering through her menstrual cycles. She has cysts on her ovaries that make those 10 days a living hell. She had one of her ovaries removed when she was just 14; the other they won't take out till she is 40 or older. Years of hell for my Ashley. I so feel her pain every month but she doesn't quit, doesn't give in.   That'...

What Bell isn't telling you about Fibe TV

Update: This week, we switched back to Rogers after spending far too long using Bell's crappy television service. For those with Bell, read and weep. For those considering Bell, think twice even if you hate Rogers. RS I've always been an early technology adapter. I had a Betamax. That tells you everything (if you're over 50 at least). My first computer was a "Portable". It weighed 40 pounds and I had to lug it around town on a gurney. I've been through probably 15 computers in my lifetime. Apple is the best. It's also too expensive so I have a piece of shit HP, the one I'm writing this blog on. I've had cable, internet and now Netflix. American Netflix . That's how far ahead of the curve I am. I get all the newspapers for free. How? I disabled my cookies so they can't track me when I'm on the newspaper sites. Even the New York Times hasn't cottoned on to that trick. Hahaha. That will be a fifty buck consulting fee. Bein...