It is not my job to be a role model for my kids; it has never been my job and it never will be.
My job is to care for children and to offer my time and ears to their stories of grief, trauma, fear, and courage, but I will never be a role model for them.
And I am okay with that.
I am a white, middle-class female with a master’s degree that means nothing on most days when it comes to working with kids whose stories and skin colors are nothing like mine.
I work in the juvenile justice system in a country that detains a disproportionate number of black youth in detention facilities across the country for months on end, because they can.
I have little to nothing in common with the kids I spend time with each day, but this post is not about me.
At least, I want to say it is not about me. But here I am, writing a blog about my experience working with kids who look different than me, and all I can think of in the back of my mind is, “You are the problem.”
One of my worst fears upon entering the field of social work was that I would adopt a white-savior complex, or more truthfully, apply the complex that I already held because of my upbringing to the lives of the people I work with.
When I first became interested in working with kids in the criminal justice system, this fear only became more heightened as I questioned why me-a white, goody two-shoes white girl, would want to work with the kids society deems the most dangerous.
Now the truth is, I learned early on that JJ kids have little to no resources. Some kids in the social welfare system are easily said to have had a bad family or bad luck, but the children who commit crimes are just bad kids. They hurt people, and so people shut them out.
That is the true reason that I went into this arena of social work- because these are the kids people don’t care about. And truthfully, that’s the reason I see myself doing this work for a very, very long time.
But I would be lying if I did not admit that every once in a while, I meet with a kid that has been through all the programs and failed time and time again, only to end up in my office with my first reaction being, “I can make this time be different.”
I immediately begin to tell myself that this time will be different because I will listen to this child and let them know they are cared for. I imagine they will see that they have more potential than they ever imagined, and I will be the role-model for this kid because I showed up and told them that I cared.
And I say that to myself as if no one has ever said that before to this child.
I tell myself this like I, of all people, have the right to assume that this child’s family is not the best support system for them.
No, instead it is I, the white girl who went to private school and never knew anyone affected by community violence, who has the authority to remind this child of their worth.
Until I am gently reminded, by the words that they speak, of the privilege I have been afforded my entire life leading up to this point that allows me to sit across from them, and beyond that, the privilege I have to hear and learn from the stories of these children each day when they owe me nothing.
This week I have heard case workers tell children with no families that the reason they are in detention is because they “make bad choices,” instead of telling them the truth that they have no place for them to go.
This week, I have heard numerous children tell me that they will be vilified as soon as they leave our facility for carrying a gun in their community, but in order to feel safe stepping outside they must have a weapon on them. I have been told the truth that “Only white cops stay in the bad areas,” and that my kids cannot count on cops to stop violence in their neighborhoods any more than they can count on the judge to send them home.
This week I was reminded by my kids that the politics of their families and communities mean nothing in the court of law, and that there is no true safety to be found and so detention becomes a safe place, not a punishment.
This week I listened to the wisdom of teenagers as they shared their experiences with a system that fails them over and over and yet, they still promise to try their hardest to do right with what they are given.
This week I sat in my office and cried as I wondered how a person that I see every day has experienced a life story so completely opposite of my own, just because of their skin color.
This week I was taught about the losses in a community that I have only been a member of for a short time, and I was also reminded that my experience advocating for kids in the same community will never lead me to be in relationship with most of the people whom I say I am advocating for.
This week, one of my kids reminded me to be safe as I walked to my car late at night, and brought me to tears as I considered their concern for me as a privileged white woman, when they know their late night walks are far more dangerous than my own.
This week I challenged my clients to set goals for themselves and when asked what their time frame for achieving success was, I was told over and over again that it was the age of 18, because there is no guarantee my kids will stay safe in the community once they leave me.
I am a white woman who has nothing in common with the kids she works with besides the facility we meet in on a daily basis.
This week, some of what I would refer to as “the cool kids” in my facility (the ones who typically never want to participate in group or meet with me) finally filled out requests to talk with me.
And I will be honest, I was giddy with excitement.
As I shared my coloring books and opened up my office to hear their stories, I felt so deeply connected with these kids who finally decided to share some of their time with Miss Darcy.
On my drive home, I began to question why these kids would finally seek me out. I felt confident that they had seen me interact with other kids and saw they could trust me, and I was encouraged to think I was making a difference.
“Maybe I’m the first person to listen to them,” I thought, when I see their families come to visitation each and every week and wait an hour only to sit with their child for half of that time.
So I stop and remind myself that this is not about me. How foolish of me to assume that I am the difference-maker in the lives of these children who only know me for several months at a time.
Why do these kids trust me enough to share with me the fears of their hearts when I have nothing to offer them? I am not their families and I am almost nothing like them.
I truly believe it is because, to these kids, they find it more valuable to share their stories with anyone who will listen. They may not comprehend the power of their words, but I believe kids recognize that their words hold the kind of power and kindness that the rest of us just don’t have.
My kids know that their experiences have power, but they also recognize that there is the chance that sharing their stories with me will remind us both how different we are from one another.
And yet, they still choose to share their hearts with me, even though I have nothing to offer them, and they know that they owe me nothing.
So I sit, and I listen.
I attempt to absorb every small truth and idea that my kids share with me. I promise them that I will never try to impose my beliefs or my story on them, because I have no idea what they have experienced.
And in return, I am given the gift of story. Stories of loss and of triumph; stories of trauma and resilience; stories of racism and discrimination and hate, and stories of the rising.
Kids don’t care about politics or where you went to grad school. Kids are concerned with honesty and safety and feeling heard.
The kids I work with are no different. It is not my job to speak for my kids or impose my brief solution-focused therapeutic approaches on them, because frankly, they’re not worth shit in a world where kids question if they will live to age 18.
It is my job to listen, and each day, I pray that I may also learn.
It is my job to be what I can for my kids- to listen when they are frustrated with the system that I am inherently a part of, and to apologize when they are treated unfairly by people who look like me.
And so, this week I was reminded that it will never be my job to be a role model for my kids because their stories are nothing like mine.
I will never be a role model for my kids because my limited life experiences and viewpoints will never allow me to come close to understanding what it is like to be a young black man in the juvenile justice system.
And still, these children welcome me into their space daily and share with me their stories.
I will never be able to repay the kids I work with for their gifts of story and humanity that they give to me freely each day.
My kids are my heroes, showing more courage and vulnerability with each word they speak than I will ever demonstrate.
I will never be a role model for my kids. My only hope is that one day my kids will look back and when they remember their time in jail, they will remember that there was one woman who cared to sit quietly and listen, because their stories were worth hearing.
That is all I hope to be.