Monday, May 19, 2008


Breaking Down the Walls in a Juvenile Detention Center with a Writing Workshop

The teens in orange jump suits glare at me as I enter the unit of the lock-down juvenile detention facility. The girls wear their hair pulled back with rubber bands. I cringe when I see the rubber bands. They are the same type of rubber bands that I wrap around the pages of my novel in progress and they are in the girl's hair. Personal hygiene and generic toiletries sit on the window ledge. The unit smells like cleaning antiseptic and laundry detergent. I chew hard on my gum and try not to inhale too deeply.

Twelve pairs of eyes glare at me.

Distrustful.

Angry.

Hostile.

The girl's dare me.

"You can't work with me.

I am bad.

I am a criminal."

I pull out my collection of poetry books.

The routine is the same every Monday when I arrive to facilitate the poetry workshop.

The girls are released from their cells as I enter the unit. They sit in black plastic seats at the tables that weigh a hundred pounds each so no one can pick them up and throw them.

I quickly go through the three rules. "Write from the heart," I say. "Write honestly. No sex. No violence. And no profanity."

I try to ignore the glares coming at me. I know the magic that will happen in the next hour, and how the glares will turn to tears and smiles. But, even so, it's never comfortable in the first ten minutes as twelve teenage girls glare at me.

I begin by sharing with the girls two poetry collections written by youth previously at the detention center. The poetry has been selected from the workshop and then published by the Miller Trust Art Exhibit Program in small books which are distributed to the community and the youth at the detention center.

I read:

In the eyes of my Mother,

I am a failure.

I am a juvenile punk

In the eyes of my Mother

I am a low-life punk.

I am not the son she knew.

I want to change

In the eyes of my Mother.

By the time the girls hear two or three poems, most of them are no longer glaring, and they are ready to write their experiences. However, there is always one girl who continues to resist. "I don't write poetry," she says.

"It doesn't have to rhyme. Just write from the heart. Write your experience." I say.

"I don't spell good,"

"Don't worry about the spelling. Just get the heart out there on paper. Your experience."

"I'm not a writer."

I listen to the girl's resistant words, and I hear what this locked up teen's heart is saying.

"I don't have anything to say."

"I'm not worth anything."

"Don't care about me."

"It's too risky to put myself on paper."

"I will not be vulnerable."

"You can do it." I encourage her.


After a few minutes, I look up and see her pencil moving across her paper.

The girls write and it is silent except for the occasional, "What rhymes with?" or "How do you spell?"

At the end of the hour, it's time for sharing the poems.

Some turn red as they read, others joke and laugh before reading, others tell us how bad their poetry is before reading stunning words of pain and loss.

Then, it is time for the girl who didn't want to write

"It's not very good," she says.

I wait.

"Do I have to?"

I nod.

The girl clears her throat. She shifts. And then she reads,

I am from nothing.

A hole in the wall.

An unnoticed fly on the ceiling.

I am from nothing

But I will not BE nothing.

My breath catches.

The magic of the writing workshop has taken hold. The pain is in the poem. The glare is gone.

When she is done, the girl asks me, "You coming back next week?"

"I'll be here," I say.

"So will I," she says. "I got thirty days."



Mindy Hardwick is a writer who runs a volunteer poetry workshop at Denney Juvenile Justice Center in Everett, Washington. She is the daughter of Chuck Hardwick, a mediator with Community Mediation Center. You can learn more about Mindy at her blog www.mindyhardwick.wordpress.com

Wednesday, May 14, 2008






Youth Savor New Found Secret


They just seem to open up. Whenever a teenager gets involved in peer mediation, this is what occurs. Remarkably, the troubles that many of them face (or have faced) gain new light. Perspective graces their newly acquired intellect. They think, “if I knew how to do this back then”. They are learning something, that few do and they wholeheartedly accept the privilege.

What they learn is to resolve conflict, peacefully. Among each other and in themselves. This method, this technique, this secret, is for them only. Or at least, that is what they take from it. They understand its benefits and take pride in their new found knowledge. Suddenly, they are in a leadership role, with the opportunity to create real change in people’s lives. They relish it.

To them it is a mixture of coordinating linguistic balance, strategy, emotion and attitude. A modern day Rubix Cube. They take on the role of attorney, guidance counselor and friend. They wear many hats. Mediation, to them, is like a riddle or a puzzle. Solve it and you have a better way of dealing with things. You’ve changed someone. You’ve made a difference. Peer mediators tackle these difficult problems with the sort of youthful enthusiasm that only a high-schooler has.

Having observed dozens of students become certified in peer mediation, it is apparent their willingness to inspire a change in the system. They know, better than anyone else, the dull effects of in-school suspension, or the hostility that lurks in their school’s hallways. They know better than anyone that racism, sexism and more “isms” cause all sorts of misunderstandings within their school’s walls. They understand that gangs are in fact, very real and not just something in D.C. or Los Angeles.

They live with these difficulties everyday, they understand well why some students lash out and others do not. They know about the attitudes, the lifestyles and all the other behind-the-scene details that have brought their peers to a point where conflict is the final outcome. They come to our trainings thinking that they can change all this and it is inspiring.

More than anyone, they understand that there is a need for something more. They see it all and they live it everyday. Something to prevent, react and intervene. To them, this is the power of peer mediation. It is the solution they’ve been waiting for.

-Jason Clevenger



Mediation skills come in handy in so many situations. Recently my Nana died and family came from far and wide to be with her in her final days and more family and friends came for the funeral and more after that. You would assume this would be a time of family supporting family and everyone pitching in to help. Well as it turns out, stress and grief cause emotions and reactions to run high. There was a lot of gossiping and talking behind people’s backs. There was arguing about what was best for Nana. Everyone thought they were an expert and were going to make sure that what they thought should happen happened. As it turned out Nana’s four daughters needed a mediator! I found myself running back and forth between the four of them trying to clarify their positions and restate that position to the others. Everyone’s underlying interest was the same…what was best for Nana.


Well Nana died peacefully at the end of March and then the real drama began…who got what! People were sneaking around taking this and that, trying not to cause a conflict but wanting to hold on to a little piece of Nana. No one really got upset about what anyone else wanted to have except when one of my aunt’s asked where Nana’s wedding rings were. One sneaky family member had quietly taken them and only a few people knew but no one was talking. We will really need a mediator if the aunt finds out where they really are. I’m just glad nobody looked for Nana’s special ice cream scoop…because it’s in my kitchen drawer!

-Sara Foote



There was a song of my youth that included the line, “Will you still need me, will you still love me, when I’m 65?” Okay, so the age was 64 in this song. But hey, I’m officially old and I’m a writer so I can make up stuff. When I was younger and heard songs about love and aging, I thought I would never be that old.

So here I am at 65. Who’d of thunk it? This year I enter the federal maze known as Medicare. Next year, I start drawing Social Security. Maybe I’ll be able to afford a car with a working air conditioner. I’ll still work, cuz I can’t imagine myself just sitting around, doing nothing.

I’ve been roaming this planet for six and a half decades now, and I wonder where the time has gone. I’m relatively healthy. And I feel as good as my hip allows. But I get all the senior discounts at stores without being carded, so I must look like a senior. Funny, it feels more like middle age to me. I come from genetic stock that includes a long life, so I figure I have a couple more good decades left.

It’s a time of reflection for me; about the wonderful times and the awful times, about the good and bad decisions I have made in my life, about the people in my life who are no longer here and about where I am now and the direction I will go in the near future.

In the 60s, when I was in my 20s, I finished my education, was drafted into the military and got married. A lot of changes went on in that decade and ended with my wife carrying our first child.

In my 30s, I started a family and added a second child, bought my first house and built my career as a journalist.

The 80s brought tumultuous changes. We had a third child and I stayed home with her as a Mr. Mom, long before the movie. I had an opportunity to work for myself, and took it, making more money than working for other people. It was the decade of my divorce, and, in my 40s, of falling in love again.

The 90s began tragically with the death of my girlfriend’s child. His dying process ended our relationship and not only broke my heart, but also my spirit. So I returned to my mother’s house in Norfolk, a quivering emotional mess. I thought I would need about six months of walking the beach and sorting out my emotions, then return to the Midwest. That was 15 years ago.

In my 50s, I worked restaurants and learned it was hard work, but I was enjoying life again. That career ended when my hip fell off and for a year after the surgery, I did not work. The Senior Services job program placed me at something called the Dispute Settlement Center. One of the first questions I asked was, “Mediation? What’s that?” And look at me now. As a mediator and a parent educator, I offer help to those going through a painful period of their lives.

Today, when I stand before the Saturday morning parenting class I see the pain, anger and frustration in the faces of these parents. When they ask if things will get better, my answer is “Been there. Done that. Trust me, you will recover, but it will take time and hard work.” Many probably don’t believe me, but if they let go of the past, the future will get better.

Those classes have brought me some wonderful moments, and some sad ones. One year, a participant sent me a Christmas card, noting that she had a lot of fun in the parenting class. You’re not supposed to have fun in the parenting class, but I try to make it as informal as possible and use humor to illustrate certain points. I will never forget the pain expressed on a young parent’s face. He was ordered into the class after filing a motion to amend his child support because his son had died. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to. His expression and body language said it all.

I prefer mediating Family cases to ones involving General District Court. The Family cases can be a lot more emotionally complex and at times I want to tell the parents that this is not about them; it’s about their children. I also understand the upheaval they and their children are experiencing and I know it is a very difficult time for everyone, but especially the children. As a mediator, I am neutral, but I can still be an advocate for children by nudging the discussion toward what’s best for them.

So my life experiences come into play in subtle ways. I don’t always realize it until later, when I’m reflecting on a case or a parenting class or even remembering some event in my past and relating it to what I’m doing now.

Nearly six years ago, I did not know what mediation was. And now I am a mediator. Life takes odd twists.

-Chuck Hardwick