I’ve worked for many years, five decades now, as a group worker in an outpatient mental health program for children and youth.
One of the lessons I learned over the years is the importance of paying attention to what is happening in the world that might impact on children’s day-to-day lives. As I am known to say when I am teaching or supervising: Context counts.
Some experiences never fade or become softened by memory. As I am writing this piece on January 5, 2019, I am reminded as I am every January of a boys’ group that I worked with in the early 1990s.
Twenty-eight years ago, on January 16, 1991, 18 hours after the U.S. president’s deadline for Saddam Hussein’s Iraqi forces to leave Kuwait, my boys’ group arrived for their weekly meeting.
The boys, ranging in age from 12 to 14 years old, were too young to have experienced the Viet Nam war, yet were old enough to have been exposed to growing threats of war and terrorism. War was on their minds. They talked of cruise missiles, B-52s, stealth bombers. They were like Nintendo warriors, I thought to myself.
One of the group, Tony, said, “I’m afraid we’ll be bombed, we might be hit, I can see World War III coming. What if there’s a nuclear war?”
As the discussion progressed, the boys agreed that little protection existed against terrorism.
The group railed about how “everything is falling apart.” They seemed to have little faith in adults’ and authorities’ ability to protect them.
Rick, who could’ve easily passed for 17, said, “You guys will probably think I’m a wimp, but I’m scared shitless.”
When I asked the others in the group if they thought Rick was a wimp, they said “no” and revealed that they, too, were scared. I told them that war is scary and that it takes a lot of courage to be supportive.
When the meeting ended, the boys started walking out at a few minutes past seven. I flicked on the radio in time to hear U.S. President George H.W. Bush’s press secretary Marlin Fitzwater announce: “The liberation of Kuwait has begun.” Moments later, the boys burst through the door yelling, “They started dropping bombs!”
Rick, who bragged about an anticipated “hot date,” said he was going home to hide in his basement. Kenny’s eyes filled with tears. “My mom’s not here yet,” he said. “I’m scared. Can I stay with you ’til she gets here?”
I motioned for him to sit down. An airplane passed overhead, and the tears began rolling down his cheeks. He said, “Every time I hear a plane, I’m afraid it will drop a bomb. I was afraid of the dark when I was little.”
My reassurances were interrupted by the buzz of the telephone and the message of the arrival of his mom, his former foster mother who adopted Kenny, providing him with the stability, consistent care, and nurturing that he had been lacking in his early years.
Without hesitation Kenny, about half my size, gave me a bear hug and, burying his head into my midsection said, “Thanks Andy, I hope to see you next week.” I reassured him that he would. As I escorted him down the winding staircase with my arm around his shoulder, I could feel him trembling. Or was it me?
When I was in the seventh grade on November 22, 1963 the news of U.S. President John F. Kennedy’s assassination came to us through the classroom intercom. Twenty-eight years later, the news of the war with Iraq arrived again through a disembodied voice, this time through a radio.
At 12 years old the news of Kennedy’s assassination was followed by no human interaction, only blank stares and a gasp-punctuated silence. We were dismissed and I returned home to an inescapable eeriness that I remember sharply to this day. And now the world stage was again intersecting with a gathering of seventh graders. As I look back to the boys’ group, I felt privileged to have been in a place that provided more than blank stares and silence.
It is unlikely that I will be around 28 years from now. But many of you who are reading this will be. Remember, context counts and it is, and always will be, time for group work.