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.
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.
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