My career in human service officially began during a summer break between my freshman and sophomore years. I was nineteen, and I needed a job. Being a child of divorce, I had four parents. Three of them were connected to the substance abuse and counseling worlds one way or another, so it’s no surprise I ended up where I am. On a tip from one of them, I applied for a position as peer counselor at an adolescent rehabilitation facility, Trout Lake Camp, in Avon Park, FL. The job description was vague, a knack I’ve been able to continue throughout my life. Be a good role model, support the daily schedule, and most importantly, wake up and chase kids when they ran away in the night.
These kids were either court-ordered, or simply put there by their wealthy parents, so a class distinction ran through the population. United by their love of drugs, mostly marijuana, alcohol, and cocaine, they formed strong friendships that transcended social class, which is the most redeeming quality of drug culture in my opinion. One peculiarity of Trout Lake Camp was the behavior management model. Working now in the field of emergency shelters for youth in crisis, terms like “behavior management model” are as mundane to me as sorting silverware to a dishwasher. All it means is the stuff we do to try to control the stuff they do, and to this day I’ve never found one that couldn’t be broken. Trout Lake being no exception.
Aside from their addictions, and participating in the 12 Step Programs, Alcoholics Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous, and Alanon, these kids had behavioral issues to resolve. The rules were parochial and unimaginative. No stealing, cussing, spitting, fighting, bullying, and so on. When you violated a rule, you were required to make a plywood sign, the dimensions of a license plate, with 2 holes in it for yarn, and wear it around your neck. You were only allowed to remove your signs for recreation and sleeping. So no signs on the beach volleyball court, or in the bunk beds, otherwise you bore your albatross everywhere. These signs were not portrayed as a punishment, but rather a helpful reminder so everyone you faced throughout the day could read it, and know your goals. I NEED HELP WITH NOT TOUCHING OTHERS. I NEED HELP WITH LYING. This was considered very cutting edge in the clinical field at the time, perhaps relating back to Carl Jung somehow, but what did I know? Prior to this job I was working in a Chinese restaurant, a damn good one, but still just a restaurant. In my role as Peer Counselor, I helped the clients cut, drill, and paint their signs, never pondering the danger of all those power tools among a population of desperate addicts. None of us questioned the practice, and George, the Program Director, was a kind, soft-spoken man who nobody would ever accuse of sadism. If George said the signs worked, then they did.
Then Eugene came to the camp. Eugene was 12 years-old with a shock-white head of hair that hung over his eyes. He was constantly reprimanded for covering his face, so he would lick his finger, and swoop his bangs over to tuck behind his right ear. Eugene was always grinning, like he just stubbed the joint out.
He was under-nourished, and George confided in us staff that Eugene was a victim of serious physical abuse and neglect. He looked it. He might have weighed 65 lbs, with thin arms and legs. He wore his clothes so baggy you couldn’t identify a waist, and the bottom of his pants were so long he walked on them beneath his shoes.
The social hierarchy was complex at the camp, with Kiara being the absolute alpha. She was a benevolent dictator– 17 years old– a tall, strong, gregarious black girl from Overtown in Dade County, and able to physically intimidate everyone with ease, including me. Court-ordered for cocaine addiction, Kiara projected more drug kingpin than drug addict. By the time I was on the job she’d already been there 3 months, with 9 months to go. The average stay was 5-6 months, but she was apparently a special case.
She adopted Eugene as her sidekick and mascot immediately, placing him under her exclusive protection and hyping him up constantly. I loved her for it then, and I love her for it now. Eugene was no easy victim though, and he thrilled to make Kiara laugh, or slide her an extra Jello cup he stole during chores. George became concerned that Eugen and Kiara were negative influences on each other, and he took measures to control their access to each other, placing them on opposite sides of the facility for chores, and in different groups throughout the day. This changed Eugene’s demeanor. His permanent stoner grin was replaced by a serene poker face, not angry, just devoid of expression. He began to systematically break the rules.
Eugene had two great loves that we talked about frequently. The first was weed, and the second was the Beastie Boys. I had yet to discover my own love of weed, but I too loved the Beastie Boys. This is an important detail. Mike D, the de facto front man for the group popularized wearing a VW hood ornament around his neck as a medallion. This trend exploded through youth culture to the extent that manufacturers switched from mounted to embedded ornaments. Eugene, being keenly aware of this, saw an opportunity in the behavior management model of the camp. He earned his first sign for spitting, which he did casually during group, seated next to George. I helped him make that first sign, and remember he took his time with the lettering, completing it in graffiti style bubble letters.
This in itself caught some attention, as everyone else opted for black magic marker.
He earned his next sign for cursing, casually answering George, “I don’t fucking want to” when asked to read the 4th step in the Blue Book. Back to the shop we went. This sign, “ I NEED HELP WITH CUSSING” hung just below the spitting sign, with a contrasting yarn and ink color. Eugene continued this campaign, making certain to repeat all violations so as not to lose any signs, until they hung from just below his chin to the bottom of his ragged pants legs. Kiara, and others, began to follow suit until leading the group down the hall or out to the yard sounded like a herd of cattle with clacking bells. Being the lowest ranking member of the team, I said nothing, helping client after client make sign after sign. Finally, in a special staff meeting called in secret back at George’s house he opened with the statement, “ We have a Eugene problem.” The signs went away after that. Without raising his voice or a hand against anyone, Eugene had broken the system.
30 years later, as we continue to chase the perfect behavior management model that kids will respect, but not abuse, and staff will administer with consistency, I think of that scrawny and disheveled Cool Hand Luke, Eugene. The only plan to manage behavior that ever works is direct communication and mutual respect. When a kid comes into a shelter, and wields the charisma and influence to bring the system to its knees, your best response is a private conversation to hear their demands and negotiate. It hasn’t failed me yet. You can buy a lot of compliance by letting a kid pick the cereal.
The custom back then, and maybe still, is to sign each other’s Big Blue Books like a yearbook when someone graduated, or got kicked out of the program. I still have mine, signed by a dozen or so clients, and in Eugne’s painful cursive it reads,
“Stay cool John” with a VW symbol, and signed, “Get Off My Dick, Eugene.”
That was the big lesson I kept from my time as a Peer Counselor, but there were a couple other learning opportunities in my time there. The first, I was assigned to search the belongings of a 14 year-old girl, Ashley. I wouldn’t call her a big girl, but buxom beyond her years for her age, which was central to the unwanted attention that led to her getting involved with much older boys and substance abuse. We did these searches in the common area in front of everyone for the sake of transparency.
I put my hand on her suitcase to open it and she warned me, “If you touch my stuff I’m going to punch you in the face.” I paused, looked at her, and calmly told her I had to search her things and I would be very respectful of her belongings. I pushed the button to release the first clasp and POW! Ashley punched me in the nose with the strength of a full grown man. So, if you are considering a career in the helping industries know this, believe your clients when they are trying to help you. When I was leaving to return to FSU months later, Ashley wrote in my Big Blue Book-
John,
Well it’s really been fun! You have helped me out so much! Be sure we don’t get in another knockout dragout fight before you leave. Just kidding! Thanks for always being there and working with me! I’m gonna miss you so much.
Love Always, Ashley
We never had a knockout dragout fight other than her knocking me out and me being dragged into the kitchen to control my bloody nose. Reading her words all these decades later, in big swoopy teenage girl cursive, reminds of another thing that is a constant in the helping business, if you respect them, clients will only remember you for the good times. It’s rare to ever see a kid from my shelter days, all being in their late thirties or forties, but on the rare occasion I meet one at Wal-mart, or more recently waiting on me at a restaurant, it’s all hugs and how are you. Nobody remembers the bloody noses, the broken phones, or the boxer’s fractures from punching the wall. I do.
I remember all of it, and I miss it like a limb some days.
The other significant event of that summer was a mass runaway event, planned and coordinated by Kiara herself. She and 4 other kids, including Eugene, tiptoed down the hall after lights out and made a break for it out a side door. The building wasn’t locked, but the doors and windows were wired to a deafening alarm system. I lived in a cottage on campus over the weekends for just this reason. The walkie talkie by my bed chirped-
5 AWOL, last seen heading north into the orange grove.
I rolled out of bed fully dressed, put on my shoes, grabbed the radio and hit the door on a run. Trout Lake Camp was what we call “environmentally secure” these days. This means the remote location is a natural deterrent to running away, because the kids don’t know where they are, or how far it might be to civilization. Kiara, being older and wiser, did her homework. In later conversations she told me she worked out the map in her mind through casual manipulation of staff, including me. Innocent questions like, “How long does it take you to get here” and making mental notes on the drive to the occasional off-site AA meeting, gave her enough information to make an educated guess as to the location of the highway, US 27.
It wasn’t hard to follow them as they left giant footprints in the sugar sand of the groves. It was summertime in central Florida, so hot and muggy. Walking in the deep sand was tough going, but I eventually caught sight of them between the rows of trees. They saw me too, and scattered in different directions to hide amongst the shadows. When I got to the spot where they split up, I sat down to rest. I called out to them, knowing I couldn’t really do anything but report back that we were in the orange grove. In fact, they could easily beat or kill me if they wanted. All I had going for me was the good will and influence I’d earned one snack and volleyball game at a time. They emerged one by one, told me to stay back, and on we slogged directly towards the highway.
We walked for an hour before popping out on the road, and they high-fived and laughed. I tried to call back to the Camp, but I was too far away for the radio to work, and the kids ragged me relentlessly, “What’s up now boy? What ya got now homie?”
We ran across the highway to the Citgo station, and they came out with sodas, some snacks, and a pack of stolen Newport menthol cigarettes. I don’t know who had the money, or how they got it, but I didn’t have any so I just followed along empty handed and thirsty. We were heading south towards Sebring, which was 10 miles down the road. They weren’t trying to go anywhere. They had already won. They had cold sodas, cigarettes, and their rebellious freedom. I wished I was one of them instead of the jerk trying to ruin their fun, and I was about to get my chance.
I followed 20 or 30 feet behind them, maintaining what I figured to be a professional distance. I saw Eugene stop and squat down, like he was tying his shoe, but when he stood up he’d left something on the ground. “When I got to it, I found half a can of cold Mountain Dew, and a freshly lit Newport perched on the edge. My man Eugene! I yelled thank you and he turned around, walking backwards, and threw me a peace sign. I chugged the soda, and savored the smoke. Such an act of grace that was. Eugene, champion of the people.
Across the highway heading north we saw the blue lights of a patrol car as it pulled a hard u-turn in the median. Nobody ran. The game was over, and they won. When the deputy stepped out of the car I tried to take charge of the situation and I told him who I was and showed him the dead walkie talkie. By appearance, I looked just like them, and then a girl named Julie, who I’d never been anything but kind too, saw a hilarious opportunity.
“No sir, he’s lying. He stole that when we ran. We told him not to come with us, but he followed us anyway.”
The deputy, not overly concerned with my status, put all of us in handcuffs and sat us in the dirt to await another patrol car. We rode back to the camp cuffed and stuffed in the back, them mad mugging me and laughing the whole way.
Do not pursue a career in the helping field, but if you must, demand proper identification from your superiors.
So that was my first gig in what would become my life’s work, but at the time I was happy to leave it, Big Book in my pack,and get back to Tallahassee.